One thing that gets to me is seeing thin books. It’s like seeing a friend who’s lost weight and is on the verge of sickness. A friend whom you can learn a lot from, but can only give you so little. I guess I’m afraid. It’s weird to say that I have emotional attachments or connections of some sorts with such a sad little thing as books, but it’s the God damn truth. I don’t know what I’m afraid about. I’m just greedy. Nothing makes me feel more satisfied than a big, fat chunk of pages and pages of words and words and words. It’s like digging your teeth into a fat juicy mango. I can never get anyone to fathom the point I’m trying to make. Will Grayson, Will Grayson, Sputnik Sweetheart, The Curious Incident of the Dog…, The Five People You Meet In Heaven, The Catcher in the Rye, etc etc etc. They are all small, and as sad as it is, they are all my favorites. I find myself slowing down and rereading pages every time I reach an end of a chapter. It’s a sad thing, really. Makes me feel like I’m visiting one beautiful city after another. Beginning of a chapter, I just got off my train into Boston. End of the chapter, bye bye Boston. Hello New York. And to abide by the laws of a small book, as soon as I begin to take in all the wonders of New York, I will already have to head to Chicago. And so on. It sounds great at first, that’s why people read books to finish it. But it’s sad, it really is. To me it is. It’s like I’ve met so many different people in so many different places and I’ve learned so many different things and I’ve seen so many different wonders. None of which I can stay with for long. I must read on and leave the rest behind. All in one small little book. It’s sad, but it’s also why I really, truly love to read. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore or why I’m saying it. It’s just one of those times I have thoughts that made sense in my head but when I say it out, it sounds like bogus. I’m really just talking to myself right now and no one else needs to care but me.