Of these late nights engaging in quests through ancient empires, into a world where auguries are whispered and souls are claimed. My mind has been bent seeking vengeance for Athena, impaled by the pride of Zeus, forever watchful of Gaea's malicious earthly tendrils. I'm up in arms with Bellona's will and indulging in Venus's exquisiteness, while Fortuna's blessing the kalends with more evil in the form of Ephialtes. By four a.m. it's as if I've spent an eternity in daze, ambling through the Fields of Asphodel, wary of Pluto's schemes. I'm hooked line and sinker with celetial pyropus and only the end of this tale would satisfy my thoughts.
The last time I became this addicted was courtesy of Conan Doyle - shuffling through investigations in cold London towns with Holmes and Watson, coursing through hundreds of cases. I remember the urgency of chasing after Moriarty and being utterly impressed with Adler, despite her appearance in only one of the novels. At present Riordan's my man of choice. This year alone I've devoured so many volumes of varying literature, feasting on five hundred pages within the span of two days - a slowed rate only because human activities were required. Coming to realise there are major moments where I prefer words to people, maybe because they don't judge or expect anything from me in return - except my memory of them and my skill in their interpretations. It's the same with sports and violin. A form of interior escape to cradle my mind to ease. The trickiest part is planting firmly back to earth and returning to all its glorified inadequacies.
The last time I became this addicted was courtesy of Conan Doyle - shuffling through investigations in cold London towns with Holmes and Watson, coursing through hundreds of cases. I remember the urgency of chasing after Moriarty and being utterly impressed with Adler, despite her appearance in only one of the novels. At present Riordan's my man of choice. This year alone I've devoured so many volumes of varying literature, feasting on five hundred pages within the span of two days - a slowed rate only because human activities were required. Coming to realise there are major moments where I prefer words to people, maybe because they don't judge or expect anything from me in return - except my memory of them and my skill in their interpretations. It's the same with sports and violin. A form of interior escape to cradle my mind to ease. The trickiest part is planting firmly back to earth and returning to all its glorified inadequacies.
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