I always hear “I devoured that book”, but truly, I think the opposite is true. That the book devours us; consumes our thoughts, waking and not - leads us down little bunny trails and down rabbit holes until we’re not sure which way is up anymore. Curiouser and curiouser it becomes, until the whole of our being is just one more page, one more sentence, one more minute as our eyelids droop and we struggle to remain in that all encompassing enrapture…yes, enrapture! - that the book envelops us in, like a lover, or really something more; deep, nurturing, and loving, yet harsh and unwielding as well. This is what a good book does to me — it cradles me in that nebulous world that books can transport us to, and slams me back into reality with unanswered thoughts and the need (much like a heroin addict needs that next fix) to read more, learn more, think more, imagine more, and to write more - as if the tide of words flowing out from me were placed there as I read, some conspiracy of books to live on in my thoughts forever.