I love reading in a crowded cafe.

I am a small pool of solitude in an eddy of swirling people who come and go. The focal point of a constantly blurring landscape I am only vaguely aware of. I am alone, self contained, isolated, protected, yet at peace with the world, because you are still part of it. A harmony of words and people who stream past you in that part of your brain that has not succumbed to the isolation caused by an engrossing book, some tedious school notes or any other reading material.

I love reading on buses.

I while away the tedium of moving time to reach my destination. Separated from the inconstancy of the landscape that blurs into a straight arrow to your final stop. Secluded behind a womb like glass structure, worlds ebb and flow, coalesce into worlds that appear in your mind, while anchored in the reality of steel and oil.

I love reading with my back braced against the wall.

Sometimes there is the minor distraction of some woman singing or a musical instrument playing. Sometimes, there is the fresh burst of scent from a tangerine being peeled, the warm comfort of cinnamon tea, the seductive taste of honey and cream. The minor accidents with the sudden chill of spilled honey on your bare skin. Sometimes I bury my hand in the ruffled fur of my faithful stuffed animal whose warmth is an extension of my own.