Sunday, 8 p.m.
The international book fair—one yearly ritual I don’t miss if I’m in town. Not so much for buying, but for the smell of new paper, the hum of people, the nostalgia that lingers.
Today was one of those days.
At the Oxford University Press stall, I found a book on DNA—chromosomes, inheritance, the quiet code of life. Not dense or technical, but accessible… almost reflective in places.
I was too tired to start. Left it on my desk.
Monday, 9 p.m.
As I was about to leave, I remembered in time to put the new book in my bag and took it along.
Read through it during the commute. It held my attention in a way few things have lately—patterns, repetitions, something quietly persistent beneath everything.
By night, I placed it neatly on my bookshelf. For a moment, I thought I saw a faint light there.
I said “nothing” to myself and went to sleep.
Tuesday, 6 a.m.
Didn’t sleep too well.
There were images—threads folding into themselves, splitting, rejoining. Faces, known and unknown, held in some precise, unseen structure. Not emotion, not memory—just a state of things being endlessly arranged and rearranged.
Somewhere between sleep and waking, a faint unease lingered.
Once again, in the dream, I saw a white page.
A few words, typed unevenly:
I never thought this would happen.
The book… the shelf… we were the same tree.
