In all its familiarity it is entirely alien. It is not mine. The receipt feels like convincing evidence; this book was selected, carried, paid for, then read, using that same scrap of paper as a bookmark, by someone other than myself.

Someone who I never quite manage to believe is real. It isn't a compliment nor an insult; or perhaps it is - I am so baffled by every scrap I find of this life, this reality, that even a book receipt has me staggering.