Gustave Flaubert. (№ 396823)

Already my imagination fades, inspiration goes out the words tired of me, and if I keep written by me, only because I love to surround myself with the memories for which I do not even sell my old clothes. Sometimes I go to look at it in the closet where it's stored, and dream about the time when this garment was new, and everything that I did, flaunting it.