“From the photo albums, every single print of her had been peeled away. Shots of the both of us together had been cut, the parts of her neatly trimmed away, leaving my image behind. Photos of me alone or of mountains and rivers and deer and cats were left intact. Three albums rendered into a revised past. It was as if I’d been alone at birth, alone all my days, and would continue to be alone. It was her choice, and her choice was to leave not a single trace. I could either accept it or, as I imagined was her intention, I could talk myself into believing that she never existed all along.” - Haruki Murakami
Posted on: Thu, 25 Jul 2013 22:07:16 +0000
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