I stopped reading books after I graduated from Uni. I guess I was sick of dealing with words on paper for hours and hours every day. So I flushed out stories and poetry along with the scientific articles and heavy ass academic prose. Now, I’m slowly getting my desire for words back. A bunch of books is waiting in neat stacks for my sweet attention. My mind is longing for a great story to satisfy it. My heart is pleading for emotional triggering. I’m more ruthless than before, I will chuck a book that doesn’t speak to me out the window. Fuck, I love these dark afternoons. There is nothing else to do than to find a quiet café after work and dive into another world.