Pass it On

The coffee shop down the street is my favorite place to be, especially on cold winter mornings. I trudge down there every morning and order my usual. Because the people there know my usual. I love that. It is one of the many benefits of living on a small island. The population in the winter is slim to none.

The sun was still asleep as I opened the door. At once I was greeted by that warm-coffee-smell. There were only two other people in there, sipping their daily caffine with relish.

The inside of that tiny building is like a color explosion. There are paintings hung up on nearly every surface of the creme colored walls. Most are amature depictions of fairy tale scenes, drawn in black and painted with bright, almost neon shades. They’re very psycadelic.

I take my seat in a booth towards the back. There is a book sitting on the table, perfectly abandoned. I open up the front cover to find neat, purple handwriting.

This book saved my life. Read it. Pass it on.

No signature.

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