Reading Lolita at 3am

That warm smell
Fresh coffee from the brewer to my right
Coffee made the cold air thicker
Rounded out the nick that came with each inhale
I turned the page in my book
180 pages left to go and the day quickening its pace
To be put behind me
Where they all seem to go
179 pages

I may have liked this book
Had I taken my time
Or had more of it
24 hours never seems enough
And always seems far too many
170 pages

The bitter chill waiting just beyond my window
Can almost be felt through the crisp cracking
Sounds of that gnashing air against their frosted panes
The space heater at my feet keeps me comfortable
That thick round coffee air keeping me from curling up in my bed
168 pages

School has a way of making books an obstacle
Something to be conquered
Or perhaps a puzzle to be solved
In classes where there are no right or wrong answers
So long as you are presenting the ones they want to read
167 pages

I'll finish this book tonight
At least by sunrise
They're used to my tired state
A being perpetually haunted by a lack of sleep
And a hate of their institution
167 pages

The nice thing about solitude
Even in a house full of screaming loved ones
Who hate each other dearly
Even in several houses
A new one every few years
All the rooms cold
All of them with a book I'm told to conquer
Is that calming
Depressing
Uplifting
And often devastating silence
That brings with it a peace
One that you neither deserved nor applied for
But one you know you couldn't move on without
100 pages

This character is truly a monster
And the man in my book is meant to be hated
Or observed
Or feared
Or loved ironically
Whichever suits the writing that will follow my reading
Whichever will get me that grade
The one that will make everyone proud
And will get me a job to buy a house
One that will keep me warm
One that I can keep and fill with kids
Who'll never get to feel this warm footed
Cold bodied
Cold air rounded by the warmth of coffee
Conquering a book until sunrise
They'll conquer it in the warmth
A false eternal summer
Something gifted
But what is a conquest without the cold
68 pages

Maybe I'll never finish this story
Or this book
Maybe I'm not the great conqueror
That I need to be
For that precious letter
A shame
That the paper may never be written
Or it will have to be the result of a theft of ideas
A crime of the most haneuous
But still a simple crime of desperation
Just like its brethren
68 pages

I exit a conqueror
Of a story
Of the culmination of the ideas of a man
Who lived far away
And died long before I was designated
Conquistador
A story of a monster
Or of love
Or of analogies I have yet to make up
Whichever will prove that I understood what
This dead man
Who lived far away
Meant
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