There are birds chriping outside, and not too far from me, he is asleep and lost. “Being in a foreign place makes you contemplative,” he said in the car, and I had to agree, as we made our way back to Lyon from the quaint town of Chamonix, where we visited the Mer de glace, the largest glacier in France. Most of the time I’m just taking everything in, overcome and overwhelmed to comment, or just knowing that there are no words that exists for it, and that even trying would be useless. I guess people must really have souls, because there are a lot of things that are left unsaid, too many moods and scores and feelings in someone’s memory that are never going to be fully understood. By you or by me. Lyon looks like the inside of a flower. It’s pink and yellow in the sunlight. And the ice cream I had has revolutionized the definition of ice cream in my personal tastebud dictionary, multiplied by a hundred.
