Back in Seattle, an apartment sat empty. On a glowing computer screen, the cursor blinked at the very end of a 2,400-page document. The last page was blank, save for a single line of text that hadn't been there before: He left the desk to find the path with a heart.
Elias looked up. An old man with skin like cracked leather and eyes that held the terrifying clarity of a hawk sat across from him. He wasn't wearing a suit or a lab coat; he wore a faded shirt and a straw hat that seemed to shadow his face even though the sun was directly overhead. "Don Juan?" Elias whispered, his voice cracking. Carlos Castaneda – All Books In One - PDF
By the time he reached Journey to Ixtlan , the digital white of the screen was blinding. Elias tried to rub his eyes, but his hands felt heavy, like they were made of river stone. He looked down. His ergonomic chair was gone. He was sitting on a sun-baked rock. "You’re late," a voice rasped. Back in Seattle, an apartment sat empty