These are thoughts I have while reading books. Halfway through or in the beginning.
- “Me Before You” by Jojo Moyes: There’s not a single likable character in this whole book, yet somehow I’m still reading.
- “The Tradition” by Jericho Brown: Reading poetry is the only time I’m not afraid to die.
- “Wind/Pinball” by Haruki Murakami: Now THIS is a f*ckin BOOK. Is it necessary to describe every single woman’s boobs though?
Eva Moe 