Travel in your mind when you can’t physically.

Flipping pages, we hiked through dusty passes with the girls, stopping every now and then to help them take off their backpacks, placing our hands on their warm, moist shoulders and gazing off at papaya sunsets. We drank tea with them in a water pavilion, among blazing goldfish. We did whatever we wanted to do, and Cecilia hadn’t killed herself: she was a bride in Calcutta, with a red veil and the soles of her feet dyed with henna

(Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides)

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