You could close a book and forget about it,

… knowing it would not lose its contents when you stopped reading, but music wasn't the same, not for him, it was most alive when it was heard.

No, you don't close a book and forget about it; the words stay with you, and if they cut deep, they wound you forever. And like a mad patient you scratch at the scab without thinking.

Echo, ripple, ricochet: words don't end when out of sight; in the dark they come at you with greater insistence, in insomnia they come at you with redoubled strength, melding with your own words, breeding distrust.

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