"I was sentimental about many things: a woman’s shoes under the bed; one hairpin left behind on the dresser; the way they said “I’m going to pee…”; hair ribbons; walking down the boulevard with them at 1:30 in the afternoon, just two people walking together; the long nights of drinking and smoking, talking; the arguments; thinking of suicide; eating together and feeling good; the jokes, the laughter out of nowhere; feeling miracles in the air; being in a parked car together; comparing past loves at 3am; being told you snore, hearing her snore; mothers, daughters, sons, cats, dogs; sometimes death and sometimes divorce, but always carrying on, always seeing it through; reading a newspaper alone in a sandwich joint and feeling nausea because she’s now married to a dentist with an IQ of 95; racetracks, parks, park picnics; even jails; her dull friends, your dull friends; your drinking, her dancing; your flirting, her flirting; her pills, your fucking on the side, and her doing the same; sleeping together…"
Women, Charles Bukowski (1978) Chapter 92.
I love this passage. Everything about it. From the way its written in its stream of consciousness style, to the way it captures the fleeting nature of sentimentality, the things we hang on to and those we choose or are forced to remember.