Readers Are Made By Readers - It

And When Someone Else Speaks Your Name You Feel Pleased. You Feel Wanted. You Feel There. Alive. Even If They're Saying Your Name With Dislike, At Least You Know You're You, That You Exist.

I Huff And Puff And Struggle With Every Sentence, Paragraph And Page - Sometimes Every Word As Well.

How Do I Think Of You? As Someone I Want To Be With. As Someone As Young As Me, But "older," If That Makes Sense. As Someone I Like To Look At, Not Just Because You're Good To Look At, But Because Just Looking At You Makes Me Smile And Feel Happier. As Someone Who Knows Her Mind And Who I Envy For That. As Someone Who Is Strong In Herself Without Seeming To Need Anyone Else To Help Her. As Someone Who Makes Me Thinks And Unsettles Me In A Way That Makes Me Feel More Alive.

A Joy That Hurts With Sadness A Sadness That Is Pleasurable A Pleasure Full Of Terror A Terror That Excites An Excitement That Calms A Calmness That Frightens.

Rooms Are A Fixed Size, Which Can't Be Altered Without Pulling Down Walls And Building New Ones. They Should Be Unchanging In Shape And Proportions. But Sometimes They Do Change Depending On Who's In Them.