I go through weird literature phases. I read, it's becoming a lost art you know, and I clump. I cram. I overdo a month or two... or three (it's pure gluttony really) of works by the same author into my head. i need it.
steven king, jk rowling, george r r martin. these are some examples of my most recent benders.
three times a year i make love all over henry miller (i mean book after book after book i cant get enough - it's obsession - i re-read the damn things. my books are worn soft.)
but right now, and this is going to sound so fucking cliche, i am sucking the life out of jane austin. I truly long for the good old days when all things were proper and just so, when all the men wore suits and all the women wore dresses and angst, lust, longing...
((((tumbleweed))))) I need some dick.
