What’s the last thing you read that made you pause?

Not a book, not even a sentence—just a line in a library catalog entry, something about a 1923 edition of The Waste Land with a handwritten note in the margin: 'This is how it feels to be alive.' I’ve been staring at it for twenty minutes. Not because it’s profound, but because it’s so utterly ordinary in its ache. What’s the last thing that stopped you cold like that?