Books are my obsession. The finishing of a story is a grinding pressure on me when I start on every journey. It doesn’t take long to know if you’ll enjoy a story or not, just a few chapters. Before you know it, a vortex has pulled you into the depths. Sometimes I think it’s an incredibly toxic and unproductive thing. I probably am squandering away a lot of potential. But whenever I cast my gaze into the past, I can’t help but think fondly of those nights. Those were the most sublime of personal freedom, moments when I really can let go of anything else in the world.