When from a long distant past nothing subsists,
after the people are dead,
after the things are broken and scattered,
taste and smell alone, more fragile but enduring,
more substantial, more persistent,
more faithful, remain poised a long time,
like souls,
remembering,
waiting,
hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest;
and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence,
the vast structure of recollection.
-Proust (read it out loud, and taste those goddamn words.)
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