‘The purpose of the art is not the release of a momentary ejection of adrenaline but rather the gradual, lifelong construction of a state of wonder and serenity’ Glenn Gould

Sylvia came to me, when, with a kind of relief, I was about to finish eating my dinner. After a seemingly short dusk, a very tiring, windy and rainy day turned into a clear, starry night. I like cycling at night, and I can not resist this temptation especially during full moon, and particularly under a clear sky. Streets then shines with silvery lustre. I raise my hand, high, I touch one thumb with my index finger – white moon perfectly fits into the circular frame. I smile seeing how smoothly it does. As if it was always there. Even when it actually isn’t there, but who knows, maybe then, it is even more.

I clench my fingers, still hoping that in this encircling darkness, in the threshold of night, I will feel a warm touch of a soft hand. And then I keep going, slowly sinking in a discolored dream; dream of blurry shapes, dim, dark-gray spots, from time to time mixed with sharp beams of light of passing vehicles, which themselves appear like a ghostly complement of a solitary dream, created by laboriously and persistently covered road.

It was already late, when I got to San Lucas. I stopped at the first traffic lights, as soon as I saw a tiny roadside restaurant. I ordered a meal and sat down. I was eating in a company of several dark eyes, staring at me, embedded in the silent faces of some stocky bodies, which with their unnaturally energetic and grotesque gestures, betrayed a great curiosity, but for some unknown reasons, they did not want to take any conversation with me.

I almost finished eating last, fried banana, feeling more tired by these fixed on me gazes than by that long, exhausting road, when a young woman came to me. She turned out to be a teacher from a nearby school. Thanks to her kindness, an hour later I was putting up my tent in one of the classrooms. I got a mattress, keys to the bathroom and warm words for a good night. Falling asleep, somewhere between reality and a dream, I heard a strange noise – as if something was scrubbing the door. I was too tired to go out and see what it was. In the morning I discovered that a ginger cat was sleeping with me in the room. As I got closer, he hid behind a wardrobe. Barely did I open the door, he fled.

That night I already spent in Peru. I went down from the mountains to the coast and it got hot again. I do not know how my weak sinuses will react to this sudden change of climate. Cold in the high mountains, strong winds and long descents in the rain certainly didn’t have any good effect on them. Maybe dry, desert coast will please them. And sniffing steroids, which have been helping me going for over a week.

The days again became similar. I wake up, eat breakfast, and I get on the bike. The sun is shining, the wind is blowing, sometimes it’s raining. That’s all. Among these words, in which I create myself, there is the rest. After all, I am no longer here. And even if I’m wrong, and I am somewhere for someone, and I do mean anything, it is only for a moment, I’m here for a while: I’ll oversight what further lies, and I’ll be wrong with all the rest.