fullman*

The people walking on the street suddenly stopped, their faces darkening – here a tear or a whimper, there a sigh – and then the act itself. At the sight of a familiar nape, or at the prodding of a distant scent or the notes of a song once shared, the heart is wrenched out of the one’s soul, gravity becoming its long-lost lover, shattering on busy pavements, in the middle of the city, inside an empty church, in front of a portrait, or even when one is high.

The act repeats itself, a testimony to the truth that we have more than one heart, and the best argument why we can’t spare that many.