When I Was Twelve, I

The Longer You Are In A Place, The More You Get Under Its Layers.

Sometimes The Valley Below Is Like A Bowl Filled Up With Fog. I Can See Hard Green Figs On Two Trees And Pears On A Tree Just Below Me. A Fine Crop Coming In. May Summer Last A Hundred Years.

One Of Those Flash Epiphanies Of Travel, The Realization That Worlds You'd Love Vibrantly Exist Outside Your Ignorance Of Them. The Vitality Of Many Lives You Know Nothing About. I Could Live In This Town, So How Is It That I've Never Been Here Before Today?

Whatever A Guidebook Says, Wether Or Not You Leave Somewhere With A Sense Of The Place Is Entirely A Matter Of Smell And Instinct.

It’s Daunting To Find The Language So Foreign, So Distant, But Also So Thrilling. One Is Absolved Of Responsibility When The Language Is Incomprehensible.