I crossed the room, and what you did was to feel my hair over and over again and in different ways, touch it, with the palm of your hand... felt it, strands of hair, with your fingers, touched it as if it were cloth, the way a child touches its favorite surfaces.
What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.
Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.
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