I like books because they are the only thing stubborn enough to hold my chaos together. Words are the cement of my thoughts, without them my ideas would melt faster than Icarus’ wings. I read because I am desperate to catch my own mind before it runs away from me. Books are my accomplices, my weapons, my excuses.

They sit quietly on the shelf, pretending to be innocent, while secretly arming me with the perfect insults and the occasional epiphany. They don’t judge me for underlining the obvious or for reading the same sentence twelve times until it finally surrenders its meaning.