That's the number of pages I have read so far this year. 30 books.
6 of them in the past 11 days.
I finish one, faff around the house for a while doing odds and ends but not really committing to anything of real importance.
And then start another.
My bedside stack has dwindled to just one.
Mass reading, while a definite holiday pleasure, is also a sign of mine. A sign of lack of coping. Of attempting to escape from something.
In this case it's the empty house. My 'just weekends' now with MR are taking more adjustment than anticipated. It feels too much like a step backwards. It's not. But the less time together leaves an ache in my heart. I feel lost.
The end of next year feels a very long way away. There are things to be done in that time. And then we can finally, after seven and a half years, live together full time.