** It wasn't until I read the first chapter (which was a matter of five minutes) that i realized I had goose flesh. The sordid mind found its new love and then they took off. Its been a day with this book, and it has given me no reason to love or hate it. It just keeps reminding me that here in my hands, it just is. And I have to take it and read it and love it and hate it for what it just is. Sometimes the act of reading transcends the conscious, calculating, over - perfect mind to fall into a certain lethargy where everything is nothing but a simple trail of words, hanging on to each other line after line. There is no pain or pleasure or excitement for that matter, as I consciously try to keep "feeling" a certain state of elated-ness that I associate while reading any book. But there is a certain melancholy, not about the completion of the book, but about the length of its journey, the process of its story which makes me suddenly weary and impatient. Certain aspects highlight while slowly most of it fades away. You suddenly do not know why you read or even look at the book, but you still keep going. Its like the tide of time, where everything exclusive just shuts off to let every thing ordinary take its place. **
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