I was living in a state of was perpetual deja vu, everywhere I went I felt like I already been there. It was like following a invisible man. The smell of dry blood, dirty foot prints circling each other, that aroma of old sweat like fried chicken, the feel of a floor still warm the fight the night before.
We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves.
(Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)