I just want to read books for a weekend, without worrying about work or the world. I want to take away my sense of responsibility, for myself and every other self within a 10,000 mile radius. I want to spend hours browsing at bookstores, moving my fingers along exposed spines. Between all the paper and ink, I am a Queen. I am the only voice of power, and only by my mercy will these voices be heard. The threat is, of course, hollow. My feet, face, hands, stomach, legs…so my entire body… it’s shaking and wiggling and it’s impossible to hide my desire to read every last pen stroke in this paradise. I just want that sort of weekend. Hell, I just want that sort of life. And maybe somebody who wants to make a book club, just for 2.
I’ve made more friends with ideas set in ink than warm bodies, and that’s perfectly fine with me.
That little light from your lampshade 
My late wife and I were a Book Club of two. We could sit beside one another for hours, not saying a word, and reading. Things were different after the boy came along. A child deserves engagement from his parents. Still, he is comfortable, as a man, sitting beside his own beloved, and just reading and thinking sweet thoughts.
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It is a lovely fantasy. I can relate.
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