The nineteenth day of August The year is unknown Again, I woke in my childhood bed. Rather than rushing out the door, I chronicled all that I could remember from the past few days. When I was satisfied, I slowly made my way into the tearoom. There, once more, was the old man. Today he was neither feeding the hound nor puffing on his pipe. He was reading. So engrossed in his book, the old man did not bother lifting his head as I drew near. As I sat, I realized the book the old man held to his nose was this very journal. More than a little irritated, I demanded it back. After a moment, he lowered my journal and smiled. Immediately my frustration melted away. He then lifted my journal and continued to read. I looked outside. It was sunny. People were walking hither and thither taking little notice of my quaint little tearoom. So engaged in the goings on of the folk outside, the old man had to clear his throat to redirect my attention. My journal was nowhere to be seen. The old manâ€™s hands lay perfectly flat upon the stone tabletop. Jeweled rings adorned the first and second fingers on both metacarpi. The fire cracked sending sparks out onto the hearth. My head spun as I followed the spark closest to me. It seemed to dip and rise as if on an air current. The last thing I recall is this spark making its way up into the bowl of the old manâ€™s pipe.