The Belgian clouds hover over us like cotton candies. The winds blow mildly, gently, as if to say time is yet ample. The people go on about their day, in serene smiles, happy or neutral faces, and for them time perhaps matters. But for the traveler, time is distilled under a cloud of ideal utopia, from which rises only the purest form of contentment. It is in this utopia that the traveler walks, eats, breaths a new sensation, an irrelevant, but beautiful, dreamlike illusion of perfection to its highest degree.
I wonder though if the ideal is inevitably temporary. Or rather it is the mind that has the power to accept anything as ideal. I believe the latter to be true…
Until a later time,
The little traveler