Today is a reading day.
My wife is a self-proclaimed book bulimic. She goes long stretches without reading and then spends nearly a full rotation of the planet sequestered with a book. Once it was The Da Vinci Code in a back-country cabin; today it is The Emerald Mile on our living-room couch. Come to think of it, a better metaphor (less fraught) might be: she's a book camel -- a single read sustaining her through extended miles of her journey until she arrives at the next unexpected literacy oasis.
Different analogies describe my reading. I'm usually more of a plodder, the tortoise to her hare. Most days, I read slow and steady: commuting on the bus, before going to bed, to name two predictable examples. Reading for me builds inexorable momentum. It's an accretion of snowflakes, any title holding the potential to release a powerful avalanche that will sweep me almost faster than I want to go to the end.