You are wise, witty, and wonderful, but you spend too much time reading this sort of trash.

In the quiet solitude of her study, an air thick with the scent of aged paper and faint traces of jasmine, Martha adjusted the spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. The lamplight cast long shadows across the meticulously arranged shelves that lined the walls, each one sagging under the weight of books—some ancient, their spines worn and brittle, others relatively new, their covers still crisp and unblemished. Her fingers traced the spine of the latest addition to her collection, a biography of a long-forgotten 18th-century botanist who had dedicated his life to the study of rare orchids. A smile played at the corners of her lips as she recalled the thrill of discovery when she stumbled upon this hidden gem at the flea market last week.

But that same smile faded as her gaze drifted to the neatly stacked pile of magazines on her desk. The glossy surfaces reflected the flickering light, their titles berating her with bold, sensationalist claims: "Seven Celebrities Who Regret Their Plastic Surgery!" and "Ancient Aliens Build the Pyramids? You Won’t Believe What Experts Are Saying Now!" Her niece had dropped them off earlier that evening, insisting that Martha needed to "lighten up" and "stay current with the world beyond academia." Martha had humored her, flipping through the pages with polite interest, but her heart wasn’t in it. The words twisted and warped reality into something unrecognizable, and the more she read, the more her temples pulsed with irritation.

"Idiotics," she muttered, using her favorite term for the genre. "You are wise, witty, and wonderful," she mocked, quoting the kind words people often used to describe her, "but you spend too much time reading this sort of trash." The irony wasn’t lost on her. She had once been immersed in the rigorous study of philosophical texts, debating the nuances of Kant’s ethics with colleagues over steaming cups of Earl Grey. Now, here she was, entertaining the vapid musings of talking-head pundits and so-called "truth-seekers" who peddled conspiracies as though they were gospel.

A clock on the wall chimed, its melody deep and melodic, pulling her from her thoughts. Eight o’clock. She had promised her niece she’d attend a avant-garde theater performance downtown, something about modernist existentialism—activities like these were now her way of staying connected to the world outside this room. She sighed, glancing once more at the magazines. Perhaps she would donate them to the community center. Let someone else indulge in the fantastical and the frivolous. As for her, there were still entire sections of the library stack marked with unfinished notes, and a fresh cup of tea awaited her in the kitchen.

With a decisive maternal flick of her wrist, Martha closed the magazine on top and stacked them into a neat pile. Decisions made, resolutions set. She would not let idle detours derail her again. As she stood, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, echoing the weight of her choices. Tomorrow, she would return to her Aristotle, her Nietzsche, her cherished orchid encyclopedias. Tonight, however, the stage awaited—and maybe, just maybe, a little conversation sparking with intellectual fervor would remind her why she had fallen in love with the written word in the first place.