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Feb 8th 2008
It's a cold night; up here in the computer room, there is no heat; only the buzz of my small 'energy saver' space heater, which hardly produces as much heat as my mother's dogs do. The air is dry, and my light comes from a plant-light jammed into a previously unused lamp I found in one of the other rooms.
I'm in a reading-thrall. One more sentence, one more paragraph, one more chapter, to the end, caught up in the adventure of it all, escapism mingled with a lust for new experiences, and a lust for ink.
Ink is the blood of the soul.
As a child, my mom said I read too much. I remember it. Go outside and play with your friends, or something. Anything. It's not natural for a child to closet herself away like that, not healthy...
If I could live off of books, thoughts, ideas, I would.
I can't keep it up forever, and probably within the hour I'll groggily head to bed to collapse until morning in a dreamless sleep, then wake up to finish the last few chapters of the book, then on to the next.
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