Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any attention. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that 18 years later I would recall it in such detail…And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind.
|—||Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via off-my-rocker)|
She would entwine her arm with mine, or cram her hand in my pocket, or, when it was really cold, cling tightly to my arm, shivering. None of this had any special meaning. … My arm was not the one she needed, but the arm of someone else. My warmth was not what she needed, but the warmth of someone else. I felt almost guilty being me.
|—||Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via shyneee)|