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At the end of one of the several nodes on the net, waiting on a call that might never come again A name that is common yet only whispered in between dreams before sunrise, a face that hasn't been seen in person and a voice from which only a 2 seconds audio is kept like a treasure of better times, isolated days Riding through days that sometimes feel like crawling with minutes that pass mimicking wet sand in a broken hourglass. Still, neither is where they were a year ago, memories that some hold onto as the sole piece of wood in the middle of the sea, peeking around for a glimpse of land, only to recover, build another ship and sail again. Idiots we must be, lauching ourselves towards those things that might kill us, is it for the thrill of saying "I made it!" in the end? is it because we are too blinded by the sun to see that home is right under our feet? is it because home was never a place but a feeling, fleeting as any other feeling? Bread and water are not enough to survive a trip, a weak spirit will cry for grass within a day of uncertainty. However, certainty there is as much as on land, I have not seen any soul able to foretell with precision all that comes ahead, not even for themselves, so, uncertainty here, there, anywhere, everywhere, does it matter in the end when all that spoils any moment are fear and crushing routine? Riding as the wind blows the blossoms from the trees, neither too hot, neither too cold. Cool enough to enjoy a sleeveless top and welcome an long missing embrace.