|The Bookworm's Table|
Claude Raguet Hirst
That delicious sense of anticipation that comes before you pick your next book. Will it be an obscure travelogue? A classic you missed? A mystery? A love story? Who knows? The possibilities are endless. It's like a blank canvas, a limitless number, all the books in the universe existing for you until you choose one, and then the infinite literary dimensions collapse into the book in your hand. And then you finish it and the cycle repeats.
I'm sure there is a word for this sensation, but I don't know it. What do you call it?