When I went away
I had died, and so became
fixed and unchangeable.
My return caused only
confusion
and uneasiness.
Although they could not say it,
my old friends wanted me gone
so that I could take my proper place
in the pattern of remembrance—and
I wanted to go for the same reason.
Tom Wolfe was right.
You can’t go home again
because home has ceased to exist except in
the mothballs of memory.
-- John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley in Search of America
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