The beauty of Lake Geneva ruined me. The bus ride into the Alps renewed my love of life. I visited the home of my childhood hero, I had tea at his table. I walked in his footsteps for an afternoon; for a day I was a whole man. When it was time for me to leave, he lifted his arm from my shoulders, bidding me farewell.

You now understand the shadow of my solitude.

When I was in St. Petersburg I visited a living room church. We took our shoes off before praying, asking God for a meal. Later that night a fish was brought in. We all sang and kissed each other.

I never really returned, you’ll please forgive the dreams in my eyes.

In Nicaragua I lived in a little fishing village. I played guitar for children and read Psalms in Spanish to the elderly. One morning I bought flowers from an old blind woman. Having no lover I walked to the end of the pier and dropped them into the ocean.

No matter that I have returned to the mountains, I am still on the pier dropping flowers into the ocean.

Perhaps it is true that, to travel hopefully is better than to arrive. I never knew where I was going untill I got there, and I was hopeful along the way.

Some are only at home in being lost.

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