For Umberto Eco

This feeling I am secretly keeping is somehow similar to that of a school girl’s infatuation for her cute classmate sitting next to her. Only that in my case, I definitely am no school girl and the object of my desire, call it lust, is far from being somebody who happens to occupy the seat beside me. Still I lust for the writer.

I was surprised to find a copy of The Island of the Day Before at my sister’s apartment. I could not remember the day I bought the book or that it’s actually mine. In the inside cover I saw my name written in my barely readable handwriting. Yes, the book is mine, and based on the annotation, I was halfway through when I stopped reading it. The last date registered is April 13, 2008. I cannot remember my reason for not finishing the book, which is odd, because this has never occurred before.

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