Slow

''She was compelled by a confessional fever which forced her into lifting a corner of the veil and then frightened her when anyone listened too attentively.''

- Anais Nin, A Spy in the House of Love

...

This was a book I deeply enjoyed reading, not so much for the content itself as for the pure aesthicity (if this is, indeed, a word) of the writing.

Also, I've noticed that my bookshelf is slowly giving in to the weight of the books.

As much as I like the thought of this, scattered books and broken wood do not excite me enough to be willing to see it happen.

I guess.