The second time your lives cross, you are walking down 45th and 7th when you feel a light tap on your shoulder.
Ernest Hemingway knew a thing or two about pouring one’s élément vital onto a blank page.
But somewhere along the way, success had become bittersweet. Life had become a series of stepping stones en route to a moving destination, a blur of cities viewed through the window of a tour bus.
Manual labor wasn’t my forte, but at least I was enthusiastic.