Honeycomb

I love the way it gives so easily under my teeth like some exotic angular and delicate fruit. The rich sweetness pours forth with the whole flavor sealed in by wax that could not be saved by a simple jar. And as I crush the cells with my tongue the snatches of foresight come. I see for a moment a wolf covered in blood, shapes by firelight, and myself crouched and hurt in a circle of salt. And I know a name, Woodbridge. That might be who I am looking for, but the other cryptic images bother me as usual. Foresight is often like that; half useless until the moment it comes upon you.

I Need A Book Icon

I was making a suggestion to alias_lilacgirl about cravings to write about. Being me I suggested a book addition.

Her: "I just need one more, man! Just a little one. Someting to calm my nerves. I'll take a magazine."

I sometimes think the only reason that readers joke about being addicted to books is so that the public won't know that it is true. For me books are even worse than sex. I dread the day when someone stumbles in upon me stroking the spine of a favorite volume and I have to swear nothing is going on.

Book people exist as our own strange little sub-culture. Amoung the non-readers, nearly invisible, and totally strange to outsiders. We get movies like The Ninth Gate and cried at the end of The Name of the Rose.