in passing


In picking up a book to get an idea of what its like, eyes flick through thin leaves of words that offer up a semblance of style and mode of assembly. But in returning to a book after its read, if it was a good read, a similar action will pull you into deep images, full of fluttering dimensions in peripheral places, like corners and under bushes. It’s like the difference between seeing someone unfamiliar walk by, and then seeing them again after having spent years in their company.