I am officially too tired to think of anything to write. So I leave you with this, which is something someone else wrote but which I could have:
"Explaining the moment of connection between a reader and a book to someone who's never experienced it is like trying to describe sex to a virgin. A friend of mine says that when he meets a book he loves, he starts to shake involuntarily. For me, the feeling comes in a rush: I'm reading along and suddenly a word or phrase or scene enlarges before my eyes and soon everything around me is just so much fuzzy background. The phone can ring, the toast can burn, the child can call out, but to me, they're all in a distant dream. The book—this beautiful creature in my hands!—is everything I've ever wanted, as unexpected and inevitable as love. Where did it come from? How did I live without it for so long? I have to read and read and read, all the while knowing that the more aggressively I pursue by passion, the sooner it will end and then I will be bereft."
~Sara Nelson, from So Many Books, So Little Time
While I was writing this, someone started setting off fireworks outside, so Anders and I went out on the deck to watch. It's so beautiful out right now. Dark and quiet, with just a few retorting booms and glittering shivers disappearing down the starline. Crickets are snickering in the edges of the garden and a moth is fluttering round and round the porch light. Perhaps he feels about lights the way I feel about books.