Reading Murakami feels like reading my thoughts. The ones that’s I don’t like to say aloud, and sometimes I am even afraid to put into words and write them here. Usually, I read his novels very fast, and his short stories very slowly. I savor every word, go back and read each sentence that resonates with me, a number of times. And then I finally finish the story, I never read two in one sitting. His characters stay with me for hours and days, and sometimes years.

I love his works so much that I often worry about how little there is to read from him, after he is gone. I want him to keep writing more and more so we have piles and piles of his books to go through. Imagine loving something so much. I’m sounding quite crazy already.

But such are the relationships we weave with words. Words that describe how we think and feel. That bring to life our fears and our joys. That connect us with memories, people, and dreams. Imagine what we would be, had we not discovered language.

Time to sleep.

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