This is a new low. Once, not even that long ago, I could finish an entire novel in a month and a half. Now look at me.
I blame a combination of awful news from all over the world, leading to a slump of depression and useless escapist fantasies; and being too busy with a dozen other matters to get anything done. Maybe I should not have tried to read over seven hundred books a year: just because I can do something doesn't mean I should.
Ah, well. I'll get over it.