Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.
Some books you read. Some books you enjoy. But some books just swallow you up, heart and soul.
Places do not lose their identity, however far one travels. It is the heart that begins to erode over time. The face in the hotel mirror seems blurred some mornings, as if by too many casual looks. By ten the sheets will be laundered, the carpet swept. The names on the hotel registers change as we pass. We leave no trace as we pass on. Ghostlike, we cast no shadow.
All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.
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