Chapter 13 of Don Quixote feels like people trying to sound wise around a campfire while quietly carrying their own private sadness.
They walk toward the funeral.
More people join. The story grows.
Everyone talks about love like it’s something noble.
Don Quixote talks like it’s a duty.
But it starts to crack:
Love becomes performance.
Honor becomes words.
For me:
The louder they speak about love,
the less real it feels.