It’s strange that all the memories that come back to me share two qualities. They’re always filled with tranquility, that’s their foremost feature, and even if they weren’t so quiet in reality, they seem that way now. They are soundless apparitions that speak to me in glances and gestures, wordless and silent—and their silence is what makes them so unsettling, prompting me to reach out and touch my sleeve and my rifle in order not to let myself drift away, not to give in to that temptation for release, not to allow my body to spread out and softly dissolve into the silent forces behind all
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