Reading a book

I have picked up books once more, and I may have commented on this previously, but it is worth revisiting.

I relish the feel of paper between my fingers, maybe cool and crisp, or maybe grainy and damp from the sweat on my fingers, or maybe fragile and fuzzy-soft. The crack of the glue in the spine of a book is like no other muted, calming sound I have ever encountered, but it is one of the most satisfying noises to hear.

Within are splotches of ink stamped or sprayed onto the page that have meaning, and I devour them eagerly, scanning the pages for the story I hope is waiting for me to discover it.

Books are great. I have been listening to Tolkien for about a day and a half; can you tell?