He steps into the room where he slept. Damp trash lies in the corner where his bed was. There are books without covers. They can't have belonged to him, but he picks one up. It feels at the same time gritty and wet. Even the title page is gone. He reads a phrase, a smile in his lifetime. Something crawls on his hands. He drops the book. Sowbugs have nested in the moist back. He shakes his hands, wipes the crawly feeling off them. He nudges the book with the toe of his clean blue-and-white shoe. So much for the immortality of print.
And the novel where this memento mori is located is called A Smile in His Lifetime.
And so for day 544
09.06.2008