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Ruth was a novelist, and novelists, Oliver asserted, should have cats and books.
The past is weird. I mean, does it really exist? It feels like it exists, but where is it? And if it did exist but doesn’t now, then where did it go?
Life is full of stories. Or maybe life is only stories.
Sometimes when she told stories about the past her eyes would get teary from all the memories she had, but they weren’t tears. She wasn’t crying. They were just the memories, leaking out.
