The aeroplane crossed the bright window.
It was silent.
And that’s what the airport predicted .
For this reason he continued to write.
It’s blue and white colour, reminded him of Amsterdam and it’s volatile ramifications.
That’s where the escape took place.
But who knew it.
He looked at the bookbinding of the notebook and he associatively thought of the old library books.
Many of them were issued in the same city centuries ago.
There were not Gothic scripts.
Latin filled the pages.
Strange code, with unfamiliar explanations.
He had read them.
And he had understood the hidden meaning.
Because it was written for masters.
In which ever era they were found themselves in.
Those books were rare.
Not because of their binding, even though it was characteristic, but because of the code they tranferred from the past to the future.
Who would have dared to throw a bottle of Klein in the sea, to be found in Amsterdam after centuries.
That was the case with those books.
He had not recorded all of his notes on the bright notebook and he continued, while examining simultaneously the book through its memoirs.
It was not just a book.
But concentrated Time.
Or rather condensed time, after so many years that had passed.
Even the typography was indicative of the will of the previous Master.
The book looked like a manuscript of the past but it contained the wisdom of the future.