I spent most of my life thinking I would spend my entire life tearing through several books a week.
Then last fall happened. I got busy, and I've stayed busy, and I've turned into that saddest of souls: a person with no time to read. I felt the loss as soon as it happened, and in my mind, at least, I quit buying books, knowing that any I brought home would go unread.
So how then has this stack grown atop my dresser? Maybe they came from the same place that disappeared socks go? No, wait, in my house, disappeared socks go into my cat's fetish stash, so that can't be right...