Words grow on you like hair, that book told me once and it’s been hard to find a new book since. You get high expectations, you feed on their ways of producing chemical reactions in your body and your body gets used to it. And when it’s over, you have to readjust, you have to slap your own face and tell yourself a million times that you’re gonna be just fine without it and you’re just fine and then you don’t trust your own words but then yeah why wouldn’t you. When it stops, it kinda is for real, I mean you’re not getting any more messages or calls or rings or bells – that’s how they call it here – I mean how is that even possible? Books, like people, are terrible beings. They end. They leave you alone with fears and darkness and doubt to the extent that you can’t even decide if you’re going to get a coffee in costa but the wi-fi might not work or if you should just buy some ground coffee go home and make it yourself. But then you think – yeah but once I get home I’m going to be so sad, so much self-pity oh no – and then costa it is but really isn’t it better if I just man up and go home, I’ve got work to do. No, they’re terrible beings I’m telling you.