All is quiet. Sitting, body aching, part of me crying for a hard floor while my head wished for a pillow, I mused. My mind hungered for stimulation and my fingertips for a voice. The possessions of accumulated ownership are strewn all about me and I reached for them one by one. Are they what they are, or partly who I am or hope to be? I touched each thoughtfully: a tiny dried rosebud given by a child long ago; a vase filled with new car...
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