21 řádky
1.2 KiB
Plaintext
21 řádky
1.2 KiB
Plaintext
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63 Reabrook Ln.
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A whisper, and it was gone before I knew it had arrived. None of the dust
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disturbed on decade old photo frames. Once frozen nostalgia on-demand,
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replacements for our own memories. None of your ornaments re-arranged - I was
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never allowed to so much as suggest alterations - everything in its place on
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shelves suggesting exotic expeditions where we haggle with locals at market
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stalls, gladly accepting our foreign money; the right time and the right place,
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just what we needed; seaside towns and their endless provision of authentic
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antique stores, each as well established as the last to close its doors. None
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of our important papers, stuffed away in obscure drawers rarely opened, even
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so much as noticed. Life stories told in bank statements, payslips, pensions,
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letters from the solicitor, passports, and Christmas cards from names I don't
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remember... I don't remember you. I know you like a doctor might know his
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patient, or a teacher his student, or a murderer his victim. You are a name on
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legal documents; a caricature from memories conjured by statues and paintings;
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a face in blurry photographs that I've studied long hours into lonely nights,
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waiting for fleeting sensations that I can never quite grasp onto.
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