He woke up. Yesterday's fog became today's bucket of fresh water on the face. Face that seemed frowned, worried.  
- Why would you worry my frrriend?
The russian offered hot tea for breakfast.
- Thank you.
They sat for a while in silence, this kind of obvious silence that communicates so much more than words. We spend so much time for those lousy dilemmas, headachees, soulaches. Shitaches.  
Have you seen anyone die? Have you seen anyone struggle? Have you struggled to survive one day? Normality has this tasteless "problems" of "should it be blue or green". Really, if you know what I mean you don't give a fuck.

And so many people in the "first world", with those safe and comfortable lives, starve for the feeling of being alive. Why do you think rock climbing is so popular right now?? The thrill, no more, no less.  

The hippies doctrine is all about love, love is life and life is love. But rationally, there is something in that, as if you have never loved, you cannot understand how precious life is. And in the everyday's life, it is hard to understand what love is.  
Love, life, loss. The pack.

My protagonist, he is just in front of that. Why do I want him to feel so similar to me? Maybe it is only that I would like to communicate to you the meaning, the greatness of life. But I know I can't. It is only the direct experience that wakes up.  
  
  Over the tea he remembered when a few years before a friend of his had that accident. It was not serious at all, but afterall she said: those few seconds when you think it is over, parade of the most important moments... life is so precious!  
Yesterday, he wouldn't have thought of that. But today was so different. Just one tiny millisecond marked the difference. Flying is falling down if you are not a bird. You can't cheat on the biology of your own bones.  
  
What I would like from my protagonist right now? I would like him to decide for his life. 100% of it. Run, shout, enjoy, not to care for infinitesimal things. But those decisions take time, sometimes too long, we have to be patient, as now he is drinking tea in the house of the russian guy.  
- Oh, my frrrriend, you know...
  ... and the russian guy told him the story of his life. Eastern lifes are so different from the French ones, hardness marks every step. Nostalgy, yes, but there is no space for sentimentalism.  
  In front of the hegemonic mother-state, any human being becomes so small, that any achievement is a measure of gold. And coming to the golden West can deffinitely become a goal in itself.  
  Things that us, Westerners, we take for granted.  
  
The Frenchman kept silent. No words can incarnate better the empathy. Feeling deeply, being with the Other, lost in translation.  
- I will go now, thank you so much.
  - Yes.
Both of them know that the meaning of their meeting counted in the moment of occurance. Thay might try to meet again, heating up yesterday's dinner. If they are supposed to share something more, they surely will, city is not that big anyway.  
- Goodbye my friend.
  - Goodbye.