It was good to sit down. As much as Franco
liked walking, there was a time to walk and a time to stop walking, and this
was it. Cool summer mountain air, green fresh grass, the concrete fountain made
as if it had been made by a fourteen-year-old, whatever that meant. The
mountain and the fountain were pals at this point, and perhaps nothing else
gave Franco a sense of wellbeing than that. It made the idea of what lie ahead
for him at Davos suddenly relaxed, exciting and attractive, all at the same
time. ‘We have to do it. Don’t you see?,’ Franco thought. The friendly
concrete, solid and stable, mixed happily with the water and the metal, the
metal rusting in a gesture of humility and generosity that so filled Franco
with pride and hope that he could barely contain the feeling within him. ‘Yes,
Davos, do you understand now?,’ Franco asked of no one in particular, of
everyone in general, and most of all in his own mind.
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