I want to read. Every book that I've ever looked at, found interesting but passed on because I knew time could not, or would not, be made for it. Even if it is just the first few chapters; even if I am bored by the Page 10, even if I admit that I can't understand or enjoy something others understand or laud. Second-hand, yellowing, well-preserved, hardbound. I want to do this endlessly; never having to worry about the trivialities and mundanities of life. Like the question of food, money or opinions. Or phone calls. I want to do this curled up on a comfortable sofa, in a room filled with 2-in-the-afternoon & shaded by curtains light, with a gentle breeze swishing through the trees. I want to do this at night, tucked into a cozy bed, a washcloth tied around my night lamp to soften the light, with just the sound of crickets chirping. I want to do this sitting in quiet, dark passages of a library, surrounded by aisles and aisles, and silence. I want to get l...