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.
It’s the fault of simply wrong place, wrong time, wrong season.
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