The cracks in Winter's face have appeared, her frozen mask has been shattered and spliced by the Sun. High Spring is here, it's beautiful. The turning gravel can be heard as lifelessness picks itself up and dusts down, brushing away the cobwebs of introspection and cryogenic contemplation that gathered in its wintery grave.

Saturday met me with warmth. I turned the steel shutters outside my bedroom window to let slender beams of light squeeze through, enough not to blind me but enough to mimic the rings of Saturn on my wall. Shades of gray vying for sparkle and brilliance splashed on the wall, dust particles float as if suspended by time. It's magical.

It would be a shame to let the day pass without making the most of it and since nothing in Switzerland is very far away from anything else we decide on a train journey to Luzern.

Perhaps I’ll continue, in a more factual manner to write. Please note that if I do it will be for my own personal record. Going back and reading one or two years ago, even though it was in a more detailed and embellished way makes me see the value in writing it all down. So much slips through the cracks and the slightest whiff can spark the memory to pick up a scent on the time and place, who and where we were.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly things can change, the pace of things causes life to streak and blur. As exilirating as it is there should be no need to let the delicious moments get lost in time or blend into the ever increasing span of our conscious collage. If we want to measure our place in time, we need givens, constants and variables. Take our past as a constant, our present as a given and the future as the variable.

The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.

Milan Kundera