I once read a short story collection by Margaret Atwood - I was struck, startled by the expressions and feelings I found within those pages, it was as if she had taken my own thoughts out of my head and written them there, I even glanced over my shoulder to check she wasn't smirking at me knowingly.
Three years on I am re-reading the same book I can't find any remarkable connection to that feeling of 'me'.
What does this say about me?
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