In the desolation of adulthood, time becomes thin. Ages come and pass. Stretches between books become echoing rifts. When you finally look back, the path may be lost to sight. Don't lose heart, traveler - there are new roads yet ahead. Jemisin's Broken Earth is one such, and the final chapter in this reverie. 

In which I try to turn writing into rupees and make my first half-baked attempts at being a functioning human. Ursula Le Guinn, Terry Pratchett, and Neil Gaiman were there. We check out The Tombs of Atuan, Making Money, and Death: The High Cost of Living.  

"You think I could share your book?" I ask a neighbor, craning toward their desk like an affable Gumby. "Couldn't fit mine in my backpack." You-know-how-it-is nod to the overstuffed bag on my desk. Closed enough to hide whichever Gurm, Lynch, Rothfuss, or Ericksons are crammed inside.