Sometimes I go to bed and just want to read something warm and reassuring, something that lowers the heart rate and produces an unconscious smile. For the last twelve months, on and off, I have been reading this:
Not every night. Sometimes I don’t pick it up for a week or even a month. But when I do, it’s like an old friend and I dread that I’ve actually reached the last few pages within the book. I wouldn’t be adverse to beginning again, to see what I missed as my eyes shuttered down.