Booklights tend to whisper old world in my ear. The gentle heat of an oil lamp on my skin or the flickering of falling wax beside me. I'm squinting and notice the sound of pages between my prints...A messy spotlight cast out over the vignette of type. All else at rest, listening as it should. The text enjoying its own monologue.

It's a novelty of sorts to focus on anything like that anymore. One task, one story, one person...

Maybe it would serve us well to take a lamp into the dark more often.