It’s a feeling that contributes to malaise. The absence of finding something you truly love to read. That’s dating for writers. Sluts to ideas, whores to the Muse that feeds us. But we just wanna be in love again, feel that new, special feeling, reread it a few times. Lose the world, break the mirror, view everything different. You can look in your own collection, go shopping. You can always find something shopping. But in this kind of dry spell, it’s pick-it-up-put-it-down. A graveyard of books started builds up. It looks like you’re reading to other people, non-readers. But you see the cold pages, failure to ignite passion, even if it is good and you like it, it’s not fire. But you have to read. Even if you’re not in the mood, if you can’t find anything, you still have...

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