A memory.

At the top of a hotel in Nyon is a little wood-clad room with a similarly little window looking out on the lake. That night, as I sat in the dim light with the scent of wood and freshly washed white sheets, I was drawn to the open window. The breeze stroked the surface of the lake much as a mother would stroke her child's hair, and invited the evenly spaced lights on the opposite shore to perform their simple but mesmerizing musicless dance. I wrapped myself in the almost-silence, the faraway lights, the foreign taste of the air. After a great deal of lying still with wide eyes, creating and dispelling expectations, I fell asleep with a new smile on my face.