I write in the margins of books. Not just text books. Bookish books. Fiction books. Non-fiction books. Beautiful books. Books.
The balance of keeping this world separate from that one. Of making time for the putting down of words, instead of the picking up of new ones.
And now that the world has lost such a fine mind, a novelist, a scientist, a local, and a woman with a way with words, I can only stare numbly at the gap in my bookshelf.
I don’t know her name. Oh, how I wish I did. I would hunt her down, hold her in my arms and pepper her forehead with the gentlest of kisses.