My day is made an adventure when a book is given to me. In Bihar, my professor told me, if a book falls on the floor, you must pick it up and touch the cover to your forehead— because books are sacred, and the floor is where things decompose. In old times things were only written down if they were worth while wisdom.

MOMA PS1 Printed Matter Art Book Fair: I was mesmerized by this book on newspaper-paper. From Door to Door by Mohammad Rezaei. I flipped through photos of Tehran; hand-welded doors and the scenes within and without them.

After hours of wandering the fair, I returned to the bookstand, and there was Mohammad Rezaei himself.

'How much is the book?'

'35$'

'I see...'

We spoke about Tehran. I asked if he had seen Where is The Friend's House. I asked if he remembered the door-maker, the old man whose wooden doors were being replaced all around town by metal ones. He hadn't thought about the door-maker, but he was happy to remember now.

I walked away, I stopped, I looked back, quite longingly at the book. Then he beckoned me over— 'Take it,' he said, holding it out in his hands.

'I can't.'

'No, take it.'

'I'll give you 20$.'

'No.' So I took the book, and bowed and thanked him profusely. And I set the book on my table. And each day I turn the page.

RIVER: I cherish each Wednesday when I walk through Bushwick to the candlelit scriptorium and good company to write as I always dreamed of writing.

But it was not there that I received this gift.

In the early morning at a cafe by Grand Central Station with grumpy faces illustrated on the coffee cups, Max revealed two fine notebooks sealed in plastic. One for me, and one for a perfectly normal girl.

I have two notebooks for lore. So this one may be reserved for my own memories.

I first saw Panyanhan from my window, acting in a fashion film.

And on a Wednesday, Panyanhan walked into the writer's room.

On a Wednesday, Max passed around a notebook, at Joey's request, with a prompt, and the prompt reminded Panyanhan of this zine they had made.

And they revealed the Zine. And gave the Zine to me, and a perfectly normal girl.

SO IT WAS: That I was reading this zine aloud on the subway, perhaps a bit drunk from wine, for, alone, leaning against the pole, I was reading each dream aloud, a little more than under my breath.

And while I was reading-

I noticed a woman standing across, she was holding a blue book with a cover I found quite aesthetically pleasing.

'That's a wonderful book cover' I said.

'Thank you! I made it. I made this book for school.'

'I take photos of book covers, I collect them. But, my phone is dead.'

'It's art based on data graphs-' Then I asked if she would put it online, I took out my sketchbook to write the name of the book, and her name, so I might find it.

'You can have this one,' she said, 'I think you really like it. I have more. Take this one.' So I bowed and thanked her profusely. And she told me about her art show on Monday, and wrote the important information in my sketchbook. And Myrtle Avenue appeared outside, and I said goodbye.

The past couple days, so many ideas have come to me while I am working at Muji. Folding clothes is like forced meditation. I find myself hiding from my coworkers, behind the aisles, to quickly text myself the shortest phrase to remember later what I was imagining.

It's inspiring to see something complete. Each of these books. This app. Seeds grow trees bear fruit and I am lucky to eat.