sunday books.

Today is Sunday and I'm at work.  It's nothing new, but sometimes I wonder why I volunteer for certain assignments.  These days it feels as though I've involuntarily turned into some type of clutch-hitter, and though a part of me is drawn to the intensity of the moment, when I am afforded the luxury of catching a breath, I realize that the "intensity" probably aged me a few years.  Ironically, in order to stay focused, I have to allow my mind to wander.  Often times my mind wanders and lands on creating a list of coveted items.  And though I covet 304839483 different items at any given moment in time, today I am especially desirous of these luscious, glamorous, books:

[they say never judge a book by its cover, but with these gorgeous books, i'm judging.]

I read a lot every single day, but it's usually for work.  It gets increasingly difficult to finish a novel unless it's very riveting and captivating; I no longer have patience nor time to muddle through boring works, even if they are highly regarded and redeemed.  The two unfinished novels currently stuck inside my bedside drawer are (1) Elegance of the Hedgehog and (2) Anna Karenina.  Both are exceptionally well-written, but so trying to absorb after a long and exhausting day at work.  Perhaps if I displayed them with this rustic and simple bookshelf, I'll feel more compelled to read a few pages in bed each night instead of playing Bejeweled with Daniel.  Tough choice.  

[truly tempted to see if D can make this. . . ]