By Paulo Coelho
A friend of mine, Bruno Saint-Cast, works on various high-tech projects in Europe. One night, he woke up in the early hours and could not get back to sleep; he felt impelled to write about an old friend from his adolescence, whom he had met in Tahiti.
Even though he knew that he would have to work the next day, Bruno began writing a strange story in which his friend, John Salmon, was making a long voyage from Patagonia to Australia. While he was writing, he felt a sense of enormous freedom, as if inspiration were welling up inside him unimpeded.
As soon as he had finished writing the story, he received a telephone call from his mother. She had just heard that John Salmon had died.
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