A bookmark, you know, you’d think its function would be pretty self-explanatory. Few words or objects can say that for themselves. Now, the most extraordinary thing was seen. A lady on a train was reading a book, her eyes sliding back and forth line after line, and other eyes too caught by not the text – too small from too far – but by a sentence that presumably and in fine handwriting the lady herself had written on the bookmark: Start here. So, ha! Here’s the train coming to a halt in the station. Final rush to get to the end of a line, the book snapped close, chucked into the purse. Imagine, a few hours later, in the evening, all of this in reverse and then, lo and behold, a piece of hard paper sticking out of the book, what could that be? It says I should start here.

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