Times passes, and the agony doesn’t go away. The faintest phoenix song begs me to survive, but I’m tired of the music and wish someone would put out my fire for good.
There are some books that seem as though they promise everything you love, and everything you want. On paper, in pitches, in a synopsis. You read it out, and you need this book in your hands. Now. And sometimes, it falls into your hands and you’re so excited by the premise and it’s promise that you actually put off reading it (or does this just happen to me?). And finally, you pick it up, and you begin to read.
But books are like puzzles, and sometimes: the pieces just don’t fit together.