V. Wolf once said that words are echoes of memories

words belong to each other like people belong to books not like we used to
belong to each other in a past lifetime

I like to think of books as objects that smell of stale chocolate and a bit of dust. Like an old box of biscuits that’s now used to store
lost&found buttons, needles, pins, ribbons, broken crayons, chalk

perhaps

an invisible collection of fantasias and sonatas from the 17th century
but that would be too much, wouldn’t it?