I've been reading very intensely, and I feel my brain contract and expand in odd ways.

In a sense, my mind is distending to accommodate other worlds; that's really what it feels like. Every time the worlds of the stories I read develop, I feel myself add another entry, and somehow there's always space. Surely, I must be taking some things out that I no longer use, but the shelves are stacked, stuffed, and carefully arranged to not explode. New characters and old characters changing, and I instinctively keep track of them like every item in Chekhov's armory.

Simultaneously, I feel like I can't focus on anything else. What's the point of thinking about anything else, if I find so much happiness, such joy and experiences unthought in these worlds, in these paper-thin characters? My vision narrows to my phone screen.

I wore my black wool trousers.