Monday, March 10, 2008

Bloor Line, in fast and eager to sit.

Asian male, late 20s, with short spiky hair, wearing glasses, black jacket and scarf, pressed blue jeans, and white sneakers.

The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma (HarperCollins)

Page 9:

Perhaps he had settle down in India, a place so diverse that even a restless soul like his could have made it his home. Or maybe he was trekking through Nepal? Scuba diving off the Caymans? One thing was certain: he had not returned to the legal profession. No one had received even a postcard from him since he left for his self-imposed exile from the Law.
If he had to leave today to live on a desert island, he wouldn't take his favourite books, or music, not even his favourite jersey or pet cat. He'd take a box of all the things he'd been holding when she took his breath away. A grapefruit spoon when she'd asked if he'd like her to buy an extra toothbrush. A safety pin when she'd leaned forward to kiss his forehead while he tried to fasten a presenter's badge to her lapel. A tin of loose tea leaves when she'd announced she was pregnant, really pregnant. And while impractical, his father's coffin, when he'd looked over to see her crying and realized that, one day, she would miss him this much too.

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