"Where to begin..." I could ask myself that question every moment of every day and never get bored of it. Daydream a vision of me out at sea on a shipping freight all alone, except for the hesitant fish and occasional fowl blowing by, jotting down ideas and far-sighted philosophy in my ninth notebook. The salty air is crisp and cool. Intervals of strong wind rustle the wet mass of long shaggy hair on my head, paired with the thick beard wrapped around my jaw, they keep me quite warm on these waters. This is only the third month and I am only a mere 2-8ths along on my journey. The wavy road ahead is promising, and the reward for carrying out this one-man journey is prosperous in monetary transactions and soul cultivations. Stopping for a moment, letting the pen rest on the page, a cold winded thought trembles my sentience, "Four months from now how will I be sure if I am writing in the book or if the book is writing me?" The pen bounces on my lips as a northern waves subsides. I scribble some finalizing sentences and shut the book for the hour. The Sun peaks out from behind a cloud. There is a fluffy mass in a slow and steady approaching crawl to the East. I am sailing towards it. The cottony fluff holds my gaze for fifteen long minutes, there are almost no thoughts going through my head. Finally, I retreat to the den to inventory my rations. The rocking boat shook free some of the canned good from the shelves. A mess of rice is scattered along the floor, little grains fall through the creaky wooden floor panels. An easy sigh leaves my lips. "Where to begin..."
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