Books

Whenever I finish reading a book, I typically get one of two feelings. I either feel warm like I've made a new best friend, or I feel lost like I've been promised a soul mate that's not in stock anymore. But like today, sometimes a rare third comes into play. I feel empty. Like all of my innards have been scooped out, and now there's room for all sorts of things like kangaroos or toaster ovens. As if the story was my own and my tale, my life, has ended with the last turn of the page. I do not weep, I do not mourn. I am a temporary shadow, waiting for the loving touch of sleep to fluff mass back into my body.