Everything outside of your book’s world becomes poetry: a flickering candle, a bowl of soup, the sound of a barking dog or injured bird. Everything calls out to you in much the same way it does when you’re reading. Like describing something intuitive to you to a blind person. Suddenly words become clearer and the fog lifts and you can see the world more vividly. The way an author does. That’s why literature is cyclical and never ending. Reading words produces new ones. And new ways of seeing too.