Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets once you've read it several times? As if something were left between the pages every time you read it.

Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells, and then when you look at that book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different as if the book has persevered you like a pressed flower, both strange and familiar.

It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you lived so cautiously,

that you might well not lived at all, and then you fail by default.

   Procrastinator's