I find that I am a binge reader. I can go months with out reading more than my horiscope in the paper.

Then suddenly, without warning, I'll wake up one morning and pull a book off my dusty shelf. I'll read it savagely, consuming paragraphes at a time, as if my brain is straved of informaiton. I'll read continuously, on the bus, walking, waiting, eating. Sometimes, I will deny myself food when I enter the last stages of the book, since cooking takes consentration that I could otherwise be using to read.

Often, my cats are the only things that can pull me out of this sort of heavy hipnosis, with there urgent cries to be fed -but only barely. I brush them aside, as if they were a strand of hair that fell infront of my face, I...must...read...on.

Then, when I have read the last page, and I am thrown back into my mundain routine, I feel disturbed. My life seems to be missing something, my thougthts are racing as I try to find several meanings to the authors writtings. I want to tell someone about my foggy thoughts, they are hot and steamy, about to evaporate into the air, lost or recycled in some demension of subconcious desires, but I tell no one. To preserve these feelings, I want desperatly to start another, but upon reading the first sentence of any book, I feel like it's just not the same and would ruin the experince I felt.

This time, the books were Go Ask Alice -Anon and Steps -Jerzy Kosinski