A thought that falls like a drop of black ink on a white sheet of paper, never to be undone; yellow leaves in autumn winds, zigzagging, unpredictable in their course. The comfort of a warm cup of chocolate milk; some children’s voices in a distant past. Some colourful candles on a cake, rosy cheeks and excited eyes. Each year, we blew some more innocence away, until our breath got shorter and we stopped blowing, for we were told it was no longer done at our age. As the candles grew more numerous, we traded the laughter of our birthday play for the seriousness of life and started an endless search for all too many things. And yet we had to find out that finding out what you are searching for, is a quest on its own.