Yesterday.
I received a pair of painted chopsticks in the mail asking for donations.
Work was described to me as an emotional journey. I hoped I didn't look too incredulous.
I finished my 2nd book within a week, which was only the 6th since the start of this year. Sometimes there is no time to read and then sometimes the floodgates open.

Today.
I read Cosmopolis while commuting to work. The protagonist in the book is on his way to a haircut, and before that he meets his wife of 22 days, who realises there and then that he is blue-eyed. He stands on the sidewalk looking at people, and this is what he thinks.

People hurried past, the others of the street, endless anonymous, twenty-one lives per second, race-walking in their faces and pigments, sprays of fleetest being. They were here to make the point that you did not have to look at them.

And I looked up and did precisely that.