Good grief

I feel like I gave up a secret, and I shouldn't have done it.  But the line is hard to walk between loving something and wanting others to know your love.  I think the book isn't talking to me right now, and I hope it's just because of the outside noise and bustle and not that it's mad at me for telling about our secret love-affair.  Everything was so nice and connected and flowing and wonderful... and then it just wasn't.  The words were just words.  I can't read books when they're like that. 

What I mean is--I can't eat, I can't sleep, I just wait around and hope you'll talk to me.  Come back to me, book.  I love you.

(I hear that normal people type things like this about other people)