After a day spent in lectures, workshops, and readings, I take pleasure in returning to my hotel room. The bed has been made and the pillows lie against the headboard like sheets of blank paper. I have wine here and a ripe tomato from a colleague's garden. I have books and an easy chair that faces the window, a desk, and a sink that shines as though it's been Windexed. None of these things have memories or history attached. When I leave, someone else will sleep in the bed. The sweet flesh of the tomato will be eaten, the wine drunk.
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