Every week when I visit my GPO box it’s filled with new books from publishing houses, wrapped in cardboard packages like I’m living some sort of year-long, literary Christmas.

Along with the classics I wish to get to, novels I purchase, and research tomes as neglected as my thesis, there is the steady stream of latest releases for various freelancing deadlines that tumbles out of box 4094—making me feel as though I’m always reading both too much and too little, my life a blur of reading and rereading and not reading.