I'm a passenger of time. A transitor between two points. Memory and discovery. Am I going back to the past or departing towards the future? The sound of empty suitcases, the silence of the unknown, yet full of noisy newnesses.
Am I leaving?
Am I arriving?
Is there a line dividing these ephemeral movements or are they indeed connected with a blurred threshold?
I am a constant traveler. Through the everyday. Through the next day. Through the unknown via the known. In every hour and in every place. Am I leaving or am I arriving? Does it matter?
"Partir c'est mourir un peu. C'est mourir à ce qu'on aime. On laisse un peu de soi-même. En toute heure et dans tout lieu"
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