Asleep Mid-Paragraph

I say to you that there is nothing better than a good book. You inwardly agree but deny it out loud because you’ve been reading too many bad ones for so many years that it seems you can’t even remember what a good book is anymore, but know I’m secretly right whether or not you can admit it. There is nothing better than a good book except prolonged sex, or, maybe, some might say chocolate, though other taste buds disagree moistly. I heard some say a good sneeze is better than a good book, but those people are liars or should be given literacy courses. Luckily you are not one of those that consider sneezing orgasmic, and I forgive you even if now you continue to deny my book theory. I have nothing else but your patience, easily leaning to wane. To sleep when I am only mid-paragraph in a worthless diatribe to the second person reading bad books, means you should wake up, join a club or run into one headfirst. I miss you, far from being on the same page, book-lengths away. Will you write? I have. I have cut my nails too short, they are bleeding on the page. The words, I am afraid I will be unable to edit them. They were spoken out loud up until now, and cannot be corrected. I say there is nothing better than a good book. You tell me that is simply not true. Will you write if you change your mind? Look, I write our conversation as it happens. It is lapsing in waves like your patience, which is all I have. Will you write? Will you borrow a book, please? I have an extensive library. Choose before you sleep. If the text has collected dust that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad, only patient. But if the volume is covered in blood then that is the one to be wary of. My collection comes from everywhere, all places, all times. Read only what appears appealing. No returns. Only write me later to let me know if you have read anything good.