Reading, for me, is seasonal.
But each time I opened the book, I couldn’t fall in.
I could fall asleep.
I could write an essay.
I could go out with friends.
I could let myself devour The Great British Baking Show.
I could let myself rewatch the entire series again. Then a third time.
None of this was the book’s fault. It was the wrong time. The wrong place.
The wrong season.
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It’s the fault of simply wrong place, wrong time, wrong season.