When we pick up a book, excited to read it, we’ve already given part of ourselves to the journey that’s before us. The anticipation makes us want to zoom through the pages, late into the night, giving us the dark circles that we may or may not be proud to flaunt. But then, we open the book. And what do we see there? Ants crawling across the page. Tiny, tiny letters that we must squint at to even make out. By the time we’ve gathered the story and understood what the author is trying to say, we’ve got a raging migraine and the urge to raise the book to the sun in the hope that maybe some divine photosynthesis will make the font grow larger.
The Melodramatic Bookworm 