The man next to me on the bus to Vienna, wearing a black dress shirt and black slacks, his black suit jacket hanging from the seat in front of him. His white hair – tall, escaping from his head, caught in the static of the air. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to shine the gold ring he wore on his pointer finger. Sat there rubbing it with a delicacy that felt poignant as we drive out of Prague and my city became merely a collection of memories.
Nothing as strong as your memories.