How many books can be stacked atop a bedside table? Right now there are no less than eight; the ninth is in my hand.
Is it variety I crave? Or simply that I cannot shelve what remains unread – a steady stream of volumes I’ve yet to fully digest …
I won’t list them here, as they all change in time, to be replaced by other literary constallations of a different mood and temperament.
If you are not a reader, this kind of sentimentality will make no sense.
If you are not a writer, it matters even less.
But if you draw inspiration from the forming of concepts through the medium of carefully crafted words, perhaps you, like I, take comfort in these sentries of the night, flanking pillow and head – imparting magic and nourishment in the space between deep dusk and the dawning of the day.