In the last two weeks I have decided not to ride my bike to work as often because of the cold, the dark, and the effort. This means I’ve had more time to read. I have read more in the last few weeks than I have in all of 2016. I have read 5/6 of the Man Booker Prize Shortlist. I read two books that people gave me to borrow instead of leaving them on a shelf to gather dust for a year until I sheepishly return it and admit that I’m giving it back because I don’t think I’ll ever read it. I have read magazine articles, newspaper clippings, academic journals, poetry, short stories, essays, and even the informational placards at museums and on the sides of noteworthy buildings. I’ve been reading articles people send me at work. I’ve been a reading maniac. And while the destructive and violent noises of the explosions from the fireworks blast outside non-stop for two weeks straight, I am safe inside reading like I did when I was a kid: voraciously, engrossed, under a blanket, as I nod off to sleep.