Once, in an effort to console my broken heart, Mum told me love should be like an old pair of comfy slippers. Oh gawd, I thought. Now that is tragic. How boring. How unromantic. I’m still not completely sold on the comfy slippers thing, but I sure am done with tragic.
Books were made from the same substance of dreams, I was sure. They were clouds of creation and color, with moods and creatures and characters to adore. They were companions and friends with worn out pages that mimicked hands, reaching out for mine. Whether I was happy or sad, courageous or ...