Poetry is for the quick moments. Even the epic pieces seem designed more for a quick read. But a good book is universal. Quiet, sultry summer days, leaning against a shade tree – or better, perched up the tree, with occasional twigs brushing your face as you turn the pages. Or a chill, foggy morning, your body wrapped in a comforter as you wrap your mind in a mystery, a hot cup of tea at your side. Or a rousing adventure read during a thunderstorm, the peals of rumbling thunder accentuating the action on the page. Or a quiet pillow under your head as your mind flies past the starry heavens, filling your sleepy thought with the dream of stars. And then awaking in the morning with the dream still with you and a curious ache in your heart as you realize you didn’t really visit a strange, new planet overnight.
I wanted a book.
–Doug Irvin (speaking for every bibliophile)