palace of winds

I’m tired today. Wearing thin under this obsession. Grasping after every moment, shaving time where I can. Staying up a little longer, just fifteen minutes more, just ten now, what’s another five?; skipping makeup, choosing the easier lunch; sneaking time when the office is empty.

It’s usually fantasy novels that do it to me. They’re the ones with the power to plunge you so completely, so breathlessly, into a world so radically other (but familiar still, in all the right ways). Slip down under your skin so that every moment in the real world, every real thing, casts a faint shadow of some other waiting life. A constant low whispering urge, the need to know. No peace without that book, no ceasing until it can be set at last aside. A little like refined carbs; the more you consume the more you crave, never quite satisfied, half mad with wanting.

Robin Hobb: Damn/Thank you. Library: I finished the second book and I require the third immediately. For my sanity and your own welfare, please transfer it faster. Really.