She scans the crowded streets.
Looking for the ones who are too busy for a smile.
Those who are too sad for hope.
Too poor to think.
Too alone to love.
Seeking the unfortunate, she hands them a single sunflower, a piece of life, for the lifeless.
She’s a reader of minds.
My first grade reader sat in an old box with a great big red F on the page. I save it to stay angry at all Catholic schools. Sister Mary Danielle gave me that F along with a nasty slap from a wooden ruler.
she was alone. all the time. never thinking outloud, never engaging in conversation that wasnt necessary. she was the reader. she read their futures, their pasts, their hopes, their worries… it was all there. she didnt mind being the reader… in fact, she loved being lonely, and knowing everything.
I am a reader. How can I not be–I am a school teacher librarian. I read the cereal box, the newspaper, the internet, the TV oh and of course books. What would like be if I couldn’t read or listen to stories. Very sad indeed.
I used to be quite a reader, but my attention gets so easily drawn away these days. I think my ADD is increasing as I get older instead of getting better.
She opened the kindergarten learning reader to find a note. Carefully, she removed it from between the pages of the book, tenderly opening and unfolding it. The letter was yellowed, and old ink remained on the pages. She gasped over the letter and what it read.
superior man lay smouldering against the tree.she landed next to him.he whispered to her wth a painful smile,”i see you everywhere,” and died.suddenly,what the palm reader had said to her twelve years ago made vivid sense
I used to be a very avid reader, finishing books every month casually, even with the added workload of school. Reading gives me a time to relax and not have to worry about anything. I feel immersed into the words and the texts come to life, giving me a world that I cannot live in the real world. Reading is like zen; it’s a sacred time to reflect.
On the table, it was a maze of tiny dots. His fingers navigated them effortlessly, tracing the tips along pathways that were invisible to me. I imagined him suddenly shrunken to the size of the reader, running breathlessly through the mountains of plastic. His eyes, a gentle shade of dull blue, were useful only to me. They betrayed moments of brief discernment as his hands brushed particular spots of the page. They flashed suddenly, and he quickly withdrew his hands. I could tell that he had seen me.
When writing, I always split myself in two. I am the writer and the reader. I defend and criticize. I am always at war with myself and when I’m done, I crumple up the empty page and try again. Someday, I hope to make peace with myself. Someday, I hope there will be peace in the world.
a reader is someone who reads things. being a reader is quite important in the long run because one can grow in vocabulary knowledge and they will become more knowledgable about the material that they are reading. overall, being a reader is very important.
There were a hundred thousand books in her house, and he wondered if that wasn’t the only reason he loved her. He came over, and cooked dinner, and they would watch old movies together, late into the evening. But as night fell, and she went to bed, the true purpose came out.
She had a hundred thousand books, and hadn’t read a one of them. He had resolved to make that up for her.
I didn’t realize he was an avid reader. I find a well-read man attractive. He impressed me with his ability to hand Bukowski and his passion of Pahlnuik.
The reader reads, following the letters blindly across the page, paying no mind. I wrote, re-wrote, erased entire pages, pulled my hair from the roots, wreaked havoc on my pencil, and he didn’t even notice.
i am a reader. a book can be called a reader. reader sounds like radar. and reminds me of the word ladder. more like leader. read. dear. red. reed. rad. dare. deer. dear. rare. rade.
I am a reader, and books are my truest friends. Long are the days that I cannot lose myself in the pages of a new novel, absorbing and losing myself in its words. I can soar amongst the stars or go on an epic journey with elves, but sometimes I have to come back to reality. But…I’ll always go back to those stories and lose myself once more.
“I can read people–their emotions.” I stared at her in amazement. “So…he’s really hurt?” “A lot.” She grimaced at the thought. I felt empty inside. I didn’t mean to make him feel like that, but how could I help it? It was his fault. That was my resolution. That would help me sleep at night.
I am a reader. A reader of emotions, of expressions, of feelings, of vibes. Reading is a skill, a talent of sorts. It is a burden that I am expected to bear.
As a reader she had become accustomed to getting a book aout and skimming it for the sake of a paper or perhaps a class discussion. Rarely do schools each you to read beyond the grain and between the lines. Perhaps many authors write their works as more of a plee or a message or just a hand reaching out trying to connect. How are we so unable to read for that?
I think of the Kindle and that makes me sad. I don’t have one, and as I type this I look past the screen to see hundreds of lovely books arranged by color on my shelves. It seems religion books like to be purple. And I have a lot of orange Penguin classics. I will never read so many of them; they are like sort of distant family members and I only know their names.
The book trembled on the windowsill. The cover gently lifted from the rest of the book, as the pages fluttered. Soon the book was hovering in the fading sunlight, slowly drifting through the air and into her hand. Reading gives you powers.
I like to read bookes and smile at the people and wonder what their lives are like betwixt the pages. I want to know what beasts they must fight or rescue or what damsels they have no choice to face. Nothing is perfect except in a book. Nothing is simple or organized. I love the authors for their wordsmith powers. But I love the readers for their heart to believe.
The reader was only reading what he could find. There was nothing else to do there. It was time consuming and kept him entertained in the long hours of loneliness. It was the only thing that kept him from going insane and there was no other logic behind it except that. The reading kept him accompanied. It was his friend, foe, parent, brother, sister, it was what he wanted it to be. He chose to escape into the words and passages that appeared uniformly on the pages.
I am an avid reader, a frequent writer, a physicist with words. A chemist with phrases creating compounds and equations. Reading words can open up your entire world and recombine its components.
The reader is all read out, not purpled out, but read out. Do you read me? If you don’t read me, give me a reed boat and I will sail to your land where you can read me better. Keep reading me.
My mother was a reader and that has made all the difference. She brought home armfuls of books in her thin awkward embrace and we sprawled in wait, in anticipation of stories that would fill us and spill over to the babies who hadn’t yet gotten the keys to opening these wonderful treasures.
How are you doing? I don’t think I’ve addressed you directly before, so this is an entirely new experience for us both. Unless you’ve been addressed directly before, in which case I apologise.
I just wanted to say keep on going with what you’re doing. It’s the right thing, trust me.
The author spends his time writing a labyrinth of words and plots, proclaiming how tiresome it is, never considering the confusion the reader undergoes as he looks over the work.
Every Day at school I go to Reading buddies! I really hate it thouh.I wish i never had o do it but i d!!! Its ll cause Mrs.Cooper made me!!UGGGGGGGGGH!!1
Der Leser entscheidet, was er liest. Die Leserin entscheidet, was sie liest. Wenn meine Sätze so glatt und phantasielos daherkommen, wird sie niemand lesen wollen? Oder gerade deshalb? Könnte ja sein, denn das bringt Klarheit in den Text. Und Langeweile.
Interpretation fucks us over. We think we understand what’s in front of us whether it’s words or people. We don’t. I repeat, we don’t.
She scans the crowded streets.
Looking for the ones who are too busy for a smile.
Those who are too sad for hope.
Too poor to think.
Too alone to love.
Seeking the unfortunate, she hands them a single sunflower, a piece of life, for the lifeless.
She’s a reader of minds.
My first grade reader sat in an old box with a great big red F on the page. I save it to stay angry at all Catholic schools. Sister Mary Danielle gave me that F along with a nasty slap from a wooden ruler.
one day a spetiel some one got a note that said dear reader on it.
she was alone. all the time. never thinking outloud, never engaging in conversation that wasnt necessary. she was the reader. she read their futures, their pasts, their hopes, their worries… it was all there. she didnt mind being the reader… in fact, she loved being lonely, and knowing everything.
Why am I the reader , why can’t you simply tell me what I need to know instead of me steering for hours at the same page.
I am a reader. How can I not be–I am a school teacher librarian. I read the cereal box, the newspaper, the internet, the TV oh and of course books. What would like be if I couldn’t read or listen to stories. Very sad indeed.
I used to be quite a reader, but my attention gets so easily drawn away these days. I think my ADD is increasing as I get older instead of getting better.
The reader is a tool for preschool children to use so they can excel in their education.
Im a reader, always have been. Ill be happy to read your stories too!
She opened the kindergarten learning reader to find a note. Carefully, she removed it from between the pages of the book, tenderly opening and unfolding it. The letter was yellowed, and old ink remained on the pages. She gasped over the letter and what it read.
superior man lay smouldering against the tree.she landed next to him.he whispered to her wth a painful smile,”i see you everywhere,” and died.suddenly,what the palm reader had said to her twelve years ago made vivid sense
I used to be a very avid reader, finishing books every month casually, even with the added workload of school. Reading gives me a time to relax and not have to worry about anything. I feel immersed into the words and the texts come to life, giving me a world that I cannot live in the real world. Reading is like zen; it’s a sacred time to reflect.
On the table, it was a maze of tiny dots. His fingers navigated them effortlessly, tracing the tips along pathways that were invisible to me. I imagined him suddenly shrunken to the size of the reader, running breathlessly through the mountains of plastic. His eyes, a gentle shade of dull blue, were useful only to me. They betrayed moments of brief discernment as his hands brushed particular spots of the page. They flashed suddenly, and he quickly withdrew his hands. I could tell that he had seen me.
When writing, I always split myself in two. I am the writer and the reader. I defend and criticize. I am always at war with myself and when I’m done, I crumple up the empty page and try again. Someday, I hope to make peace with myself. Someday, I hope there will be peace in the world.
a reader is someone who reads things. being a reader is quite important in the long run because one can grow in vocabulary knowledge and they will become more knowledgable about the material that they are reading. overall, being a reader is very important.
Dear reader, do you understand me? Are my messages clear enough to the world that I will finally be noticed?
There were a hundred thousand books in her house, and he wondered if that wasn’t the only reason he loved her. He came over, and cooked dinner, and they would watch old movies together, late into the evening. But as night fell, and she went to bed, the true purpose came out.
She had a hundred thousand books, and hadn’t read a one of them. He had resolved to make that up for her.
I didn’t realize he was an avid reader. I find a well-read man attractive. He impressed me with his ability to hand Bukowski and his passion of Pahlnuik.
The reader reads, following the letters blindly across the page, paying no mind. I wrote, re-wrote, erased entire pages, pulled my hair from the roots, wreaked havoc on my pencil, and he didn’t even notice.
i am a reader. a book can be called a reader. reader sounds like radar. and reminds me of the word ladder. more like leader. read. dear. red. reed. rad. dare. deer. dear. rare. rade.
I am a reader, and books are my truest friends. Long are the days that I cannot lose myself in the pages of a new novel, absorbing and losing myself in its words. I can soar amongst the stars or go on an epic journey with elves, but sometimes I have to come back to reality. But…I’ll always go back to those stories and lose myself once more.
“I can read people–their emotions.” I stared at her in amazement. “So…he’s really hurt?” “A lot.” She grimaced at the thought. I felt empty inside. I didn’t mean to make him feel like that, but how could I help it? It was his fault. That was my resolution. That would help me sleep at night.
I am a reader. A reader of emotions, of expressions, of feelings, of vibes. Reading is a skill, a talent of sorts. It is a burden that I am expected to bear.
As a reader she had become accustomed to getting a book aout and skimming it for the sake of a paper or perhaps a class discussion. Rarely do schools each you to read beyond the grain and between the lines. Perhaps many authors write their works as more of a plee or a message or just a hand reaching out trying to connect. How are we so unable to read for that?
Silly
Reader.
You’re endlessly
Unreliable.
You’re
Here,
and then you’re
Gone
Just
Like
That
I think of the Kindle and that makes me sad. I don’t have one, and as I type this I look past the screen to see hundreds of lovely books arranged by color on my shelves. It seems religion books like to be purple. And I have a lot of orange Penguin classics. I will never read so many of them; they are like sort of distant family members and I only know their names.
The book trembled on the windowsill. The cover gently lifted from the rest of the book, as the pages fluttered. Soon the book was hovering in the fading sunlight, slowly drifting through the air and into her hand. Reading gives you powers.
I like to read bookes and smile at the people and wonder what their lives are like betwixt the pages. I want to know what beasts they must fight or rescue or what damsels they have no choice to face. Nothing is perfect except in a book. Nothing is simple or organized. I love the authors for their wordsmith powers. But I love the readers for their heart to believe.
The reader was only reading what he could find. There was nothing else to do there. It was time consuming and kept him entertained in the long hours of loneliness. It was the only thing that kept him from going insane and there was no other logic behind it except that. The reading kept him accompanied. It was his friend, foe, parent, brother, sister, it was what he wanted it to be. He chose to escape into the words and passages that appeared uniformly on the pages.
I am an avid reader, a frequent writer, a physicist with words. A chemist with phrases creating compounds and equations. Reading words can open up your entire world and recombine its components.
The reader is all read out, not purpled out, but read out. Do you read me? If you don’t read me, give me a reed boat and I will sail to your land where you can read me better. Keep reading me.
My mother was a reader and that has made all the difference. She brought home armfuls of books in her thin awkward embrace and we sprawled in wait, in anticipation of stories that would fill us and spill over to the babies who hadn’t yet gotten the keys to opening these wonderful treasures.
I am a reader.
Am with that being said,
I am also stuck.
Dear reader,
How are you doing? I don’t think I’ve addressed you directly before, so this is an entirely new experience for us both. Unless you’ve been addressed directly before, in which case I apologise.
I just wanted to say keep on going with what you’re doing. It’s the right thing, trust me.
Yours faithfully,
Jacob Gristwood.
The author spends his time writing a labyrinth of words and plots, proclaiming how tiresome it is, never considering the confusion the reader undergoes as he looks over the work.
Every Day at school I go to Reading buddies! I really hate it thouh.I wish i never had o do it but i d!!! Its ll cause Mrs.Cooper made me!!UGGGGGGGGGH!!1
Der Leser entscheidet, was er liest. Die Leserin entscheidet, was sie liest. Wenn meine Sätze so glatt und phantasielos daherkommen, wird sie niemand lesen wollen? Oder gerade deshalb? Könnte ja sein, denn das bringt Klarheit in den Text. Und Langeweile.
Me haven dnielehannahmr. Rhodu mrcooper booreadng buddi reading happiness alll bookd =) brid tov teribithia
imagine
read
characters
analyze
understand
picture
concentrate
authors
themes
electronics
knowledgeable
imagination
truth
fiction
feelings