I finished reading a book that made me think of you.
It’s not that the storyline reminded me of you.
But that I thought it’s the kind of book you would like.
It’s a book about all kinds of things, and a book about nothing.
They all lived in a world made of watermelon sugar, where everyone in the town ate dinner together, where tigers could talk, and where deaths weren’t mourned.
Nothing made sense. To me. But it made perfect sense to them, which is all that matters I suppose.
You know how, after you finish a whole book, sometimes there are unanswered questions, or you want to speculate what happens after the last page.
I guess I thought of you then, because maybe you’d read it too. Maybe we’d discuss it.
Or perhaps we won’t. We never did discuss those books you gave me.
There was never enough time to say everything.