"Life could be wonderful if people would leave you alone."
Charlie Chaplin

Books are a lot like people; to a certain few you get hooked, for life.

Permanent means dead; And the longer a temporary takes, the greater becomes the illusion of permanency. To get stuck in the webs of this illusion is to step closer to death. 

Life happens only in a set of temporaries. Each time you close and open a new one, it's as if you were born again....

Fallen. . .

A tiny bird fallen from a tall tree hosting a small nest;
Right after a sudden cruel rain;
Would all the world get together to find him his mother if he screamed all the way?

Who would stop and care, for a tiny scream, let out from the bottom of a tiny heart,
right after a loud rain?

“She loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. It had the same significance for her as an elegant cane for the dandy a century ago. It differentiated her from others.”

--Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Making up the arrangement. . .

Somebody must ask, why waste time thinking on how to sort out this puzzle, when all the pieces have the same straight edge?

Pain. . .

I'd call it a parasite. Once it gets in, it stays; it lives with you, it grows in you, and it eats you little by little by little...