Isn't every glance of another and every exchange of looks like ghostly brief meeting of eyes between travelers who glide by one another, intoxicated by the inhuman speed and the fist of air pressure that makes everything shudder and clatter? Don't our looks perpetually bounce off the others, as in the hasty encounter of the night, and leave us behind with nothing but conjectures, slivers of thoughts and fictional qualities? Isn't it true that it's not people who meet, but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?
Pascal Mercier
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