I am in love with those wandering souls who travel the world to find pieces of themselves. They run, they hurt, they fall, they plunge headfirst into life. They fly. They pick up a key from here, a coin from there, a stolen glance from a market-place, a scenery from a country-side, a cool breeze by a river, a feather from a meadow. They steal a melody from a street musician, a brush stroke from the lesser-known artist, a quote from the wise man at the bar, a fragment of the clouds from the sky that they grow in. And so they piece together the souvenirs of their adventures to create the heart they’ve always wanted, the heart they’ve longed for and structured in their minds for infinite moments. They are the ones who learn to live by setting their spirit free. They are the ones who scream of love from the mountain-tops. They are the ones who cry at the death of a stranger. They are the ones who feel and hurt to grow. They are the ones who continue dancing long after the music has stopped.