I’m reading a Murakami story collection in an art gallery. Someone stops, mentions they read it, too. They move on, then come back.
I didn’t get the one with the ghost. I try to relate, but confuse it with a different story.
Maybe you haven’t read that one yet. Maybe I haven’t. It’s hard to hear through the masks. I say I have been letting the stories wash over me, feeling dumb. They are eager to leave. It all feels like a Murakami story.
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