Why does a great psychological suspense novel, when you near the end, reading it, stir your your corpus collosum, that superhighway between your left and right brain hemispheres? Maybe the relay race between mental imagery and problem solving is heightened as you strive to solve the book’s puzzle. Who did it? Why? The clues along the way are tiny markers you catalogue. Some are images burning bright in your right brain. Stringing the clues together makes it math-y.

Solving the equation to figure out the ending — before the ending — burns your superhighway, and you burn the midnight oil. You can’t put it down, unless…

You are taking your last breath, the book of life is closing on you, the last chapter is unfolding. You want to bend the page corner and return to it in the morning. You hope that life will be explained tomorrow, that the great mystery of your very existence will be made clear. That you will be able to rest in peace.

As you pass over into a new book, do not fear. The answers are still waiting for you, for as long as it takes.