...I received a gift today

Bad day, bad week, bad month.
I probably haven't been so close to depression in years, or is it that I haven't been that deep in a depression as I am now.
I hate my life, I hate my job, and I loathe myself with my weaknesses and superficiality. I hate being the fool, I hate feeling like everyone's better than me, is happier than me, is brighter than me, is more energetic than me. I hate being left behind. I hate being on the edge of any group but not part of it. I hate the cold that forces me inside and won't allow me to cycle my problems away. I hate being lonely. I hate not having anyone to talk to, I hate living by myself, sharing only the scrapes of paint of my life and nothing deeper. I hate having to deal with complete morons, having to listen to people I hate, having to not shout how stupid they are, having to stay there and not run away in a deep hole in the middle of the Massif Central. I hate lusting about a freaking bike, because the only use of that bike is the excitement that comes before I buy it. Build excitement by whatever means, if it can alleviate the sadness and the emptiness.

I got a gift today. In my mail box. It has my address on it, three times, so it's mine. It's an internet-bought gift. sent in an anonymous bubble-wrapped white enveloppe. Regular mail, coming from somewhere in the department 72 (no idea where that is). I can feel by the deformation pattern that it's a book, paperback, not an inch thick, 5 by 7 maybe. The book is a blue manga, with an elaborate cover. On the binding side (right one, it's published in the original reading direction), a crying woman is drawn, from slightly above. Dark haired, big sad eyes. The background against which her lines are drawn is the photograph of water drops on a glass surface. The woman wears a shirt on a simple Tshirt, and maybe a skirt.
On the left side, the book title Vague a l'ame and the artist's name, Mari Okazaki. No idea if that's a man or a woman.
It only took that long, to get me to the verge of tears. Bad day, bad week, bad month, depressing music on my bus ride from work (Apocalyptica plays Metallica by Four Cellos), and an anonymous book in my mailbox that ostensibly deals with the wanderings of the soul. Less than a minute from the moment I found the package in the mailbox to the moment I opened it in my flat.
There was the receipt of the delivery form inside the book, it was bought at one of online shops I know. No information on who bought it. The gift shall remain anonymous until the gracious friend who sent it tells me he's the one.
There's a certain romance to this anonymity, it feels like there's someone watching after me from afar. It's comforting, it's reassuring, it says "hey, even if you haven't told it to anyone, I know you're not doing well and I care". Flimsy sentiment, but if that's the only thing that keeps in the sane world, then I'll deal with the flimsy.
So, to whoever has offered my this precious gift, thank you, it's more appreciated than you probably thought it would be. Simply give me a little time to read the 3 remaining short stories. The first was great, but I can't read when I'm crying.