New York summers are sweltering, and everyone seems to have their own way of finding relief from the heat.
For me, museums have always felt deeply honest — places where time doesn’t rush or rewind, but simply drifts at its own steady pace.
By the time I arrive at the public pool, I notice something unexpected: a hush, the same quiet that followed me from the museum’s echoing halls.
There’s a line from Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore that has a way of resurfacing in my mind:
"Tamura-kun, in life there are points of no return."
It’s just a clipped sentence, simple and firm.
Yet, each time I recall it, something in me slows — as if the words are anchoring the scattered pieces of my thoughts.
In a city that’s always moving, I find it strangely comforting to hold onto moments like this:
the still air inside a museum, the gentle ripples of a pool, and a single line from a novel that manages to still my restless pulse.
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