She threw nothing away, let nothing go from the past; she kept a museum of herself in the name of thrift. Furniture, ornaments, kitchen utensils, cutlery, ill-matched plates, clothes, jewellery, great shelves of books, vast stacks of records, crates of yellowing photocopies, every last card, letter and gift she had ever received. Their accumulated weight was her anchor, it tied her fast to the perceived world so she could not drift away. She showed it to you with something like a sales pitch, she needed your assent, liked you to lift things up and touch them. Maybe you could read her their brail script; reverse their process of gravity, say the words the burden had to turn into for her to be free.Birth sign: Libra
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