Memory is a record.
People only have substance within the memories of other people. And that’s why there were all kinds of myself. There weren’t a lot of myself per se, I was just inside all sorts of people, that’s all.
"In the first few seconds an aching sadness wrenched his heart, but it soon gave way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of gypsy wanderlust."
The Master and Margarita
10 months ago at 21:00
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