You read to me passages from your favourite books, once, twice, thrice. For the first time I am caught in the dialect, my ears never get accustomed to. You read to me again, this time drawing instances from my life to make me understand, unable to translate aptly. Thrice, and this time your eyes no more need to look at the page. You read and ask me to explain. I, as to my usual self, disagree with the references and put my own preferences. You close the book, carefully sliding it back to the bookshelf. We get up from the library floor, headed to the next memory lane.
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