"That's strange," said the boy, "I've been trying for two years to read this book and I never get past these first few pages."
How funny that this should be The Alchemist. I must've read Part One three times since it was first handed to me in Paris. [Keep writing even though there will be no typing this next month. Just write, write, write, write. About Paris, but also about everything, but don't forget to write about Paris. It's this season's namesake].
For having just re-started it not but a few days ago, I've been strangely watchful for signs lately. A meaning behind certain somethings. I like to think that the way the universe works is, for each individual, that either everything means something, or everything means nothing. We can't pick and choose our signs, we can only recognize them or miss them or not believe in them at all, in which case they don't exist. Personally, I think they do, and they occur whenever things are starkly un-routine or out of the ordinary or even if something randomly should happen to just grab our attention. It could be anything and it happens all the time. Daily. So keep a sharp eye and a sharp mind. And for fuck's sake keep writing.
