I want to read.

I want to read until my eyes go numb, until they sink dead deep in their sockets, my vision blurs, and all that remains are the transient words in front of me. I want to read until the clock strikes doom, until fiction and reality meld. I want to read until my mind unhinges itself from its bodily appendage, and its comet soars above concern at impossible speeds. I want to read until life becomes fiction, and my peers recommend asylum, until even a strait jacket cannot pinion my literate wings. I want to read until my brain buckles under the phlegmatic weight of process, until I know all, have seen all, loved all, and hated all. I want to read until every word that has ever been written, that is being written, that will be written inhabits my tireless thoughts. And after I have read I will have lived a god's life, and laughed at generations of weak mortals. And then? Why then, my invulnerable hands will write.