You set the book you just finished down on your nightstand, staring at it. You pick it back up, smell it one last time, then hug it tightly. It was a brilliant book, you think to yourself as you walk over to the bookshelf. Compelling plot, interesting characters…the perfect way to end a series. You slide it into its place on the bookshelf, stroking the spine with one finger, then sit back on your heels.
So many worlds beckon to you from the shelves, begging you to open them and dive into its story.
What now? You think again…
One particular book catches your eye. Is it an old favorite that has been through everything with you? Is it the book that spurred your love of literature? Is it a new series that practically latched onto you in the bookstore and dragged you to the register to purchase it?
You have made your choice, pulling it off the shelf and releasing it from its dust cover. You run your hand over the hard cover, and a familiar tingle ignites in your palm. Anticipation. Pure, sweet, delectable anticipation. You run back to your bed, snuggling underneath the covers, and open to a random page. You inhale the delightfully mingled scent of paper and ink.
You can not wait any longer, and flip to the front page. You begin to read, soon to be oblivious to the world around you.
Not that that is a bad thing.