My brain wanders as I read a novel. Its ideas,
spread across, trigger fireworks that I follow.
Sparks as abundant as the icing on a delicious cake.

My eyes bulldoze the words across neatly stacked lines.
I build a mental puzzle of a world inhabited by characters
on the move, where what happens next matters desperately.

Chasing the storyline is like running up seven steep flights of stairs
not stopping to catch my breath.
Although eager to arrive at the ending, I dislike the forced rush.

I put down the story, take a bath, and close my eyes,
searching for quietude. Some details of the plot are escaping,
like the rubber ducks engulfed in the steam.

Conflicting needs arise: not wanting to take a prolonged break,
not willing to start over, picking up yet another story
and begin a new ride, hopefully a wild one too.

It is like driving a long stretch on a fast lane of a German highway.
Afterwards, I am happy to leave the car behind.