A trip to the library today revealed that despite my recollection of having returned Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, the library does not in fact have it shelved anywhere. The implication, thus, is that apparently I have made a mistake.
Maybe I never returned it after all.
"Check around. It might have slid under a car seat or something."
It happens, right?
Except I don't drive. So now there are invisible cities all over my bedroom, being by nature undetectable. Not an altogether disheartening thought, in retrospect.
Maybe I, like Marco Polo, will plunge my hands into the unknown and return with a fistful of silk and pasta.
Maybe I never returned it after all.
"Check around. It might have slid under a car seat or something."
It happens, right?
Except I don't drive. So now there are invisible cities all over my bedroom, being by nature undetectable. Not an altogether disheartening thought, in retrospect.
Maybe I, like Marco Polo, will plunge my hands into the unknown and return with a fistful of silk and pasta.
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