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What if. What if. What if.

Words like a heartbeat. Tapping in his chest, pulsing at his temple.

Can you ever be sure? He is sure. But.

What if. What if. What if.

Words like footsteps hitting pavement. Lift and fall, lift and fall.

He cannot, must not let the rhythm be a question.

To change somebody’s life, you have to first change your own.

Did he read that somewhere? Is it something he just knows? Perhaps he has always understood his destiny. What he was put down here for.

Not much longer, now. Either way.

There is something he must do.

NYC Walk

Playing, playing, playing. The idea for book #3 has been fizzing around since a stranger told me a magical story some bright night in Oslo. Let’s see what comes of this invitation.

What if. What if. What if.

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