the scattered deck of your past

You must have been searching a long time, looking for a way out, all those nights down Shinjuk. Nights you carefully cut from the scattered deck of your past.
My own past had gone down years before, lost with all hands, no trace. I understood Fox's late-night habit of emptying his wallet, shuffling through his identification. He'd lay the pieces out in different patterns, rearrange them, wait for a picture to form. I knew what he was looking for. You did the same thing with your childhoods.

William Gibson
New Rose Hotel

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