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It was a morning like any other: early Roman summer, hot and humid before 9am, and Aldo had just turned towards him across the cafe table, to remark upon the news or to quote a bit of poetry - Thomas was absently noticing how Aldo could wear a white shirt on a hot day and it only made him look crisp and tanned - when the thought crystallized in his brain as clearly as if God had typed it out on a typewriter and set it there.
Thomas recognized that he was merely the vessel of a truth like this, and the truth was already in him; he could no more deny its existence or stop its progress than he could halt the path of the sun in the sky.
Bookmarked by yuorpal
11 Apr 2025
