"Life and dreams are the pages of the same book," once wrote the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, and I repeat after him in enchantment, because it seems to be more true than herself. And here are a couple hundred pages ripped from my personal, endless (hopefully) book - at random, blindly - shuffled and stitched together years ago. This book includes stories, essays and just working notes made in different years, where and when you have to: on napkins in a cafe, in a computer and in a notebook, in the sand, in the margins of other people's books, with a chemical pencil on your wrist, a razor blade on the heels of a runner, in reality and in a dream.