The bicycle made no sound, except for the tires munching on the asphalt. They were worn again and might burst at any moment. A car passed him without slowing down. It was probably going seventy, the speed limit on this road. A small white Saab, ten to fifteen years old, with a rusty rear hood, but silent. Almost as if it had no engine, a ghost gliding over the asphalt in the afternoon light. You glide and see everyone and everything around you floating. Her words came floating to his ears. You speak and hear as if the words are flowing in and out of you. I glide with you, I like to float with you. Our times, our countries, everything flows, they do not hover aimlessly, they are not inaccessible, they flow and they are all the same a voyage, a current. Greece flows to Sweden and Sweden to Greece, and all of Europe converges, the whole world.