Two days home, and events are still very much impressing though they have ended. It will be some time until they settle, and stay enough to sort. What seems longest gone is the present in passing, woven with melancholic hints that dissipate only with it and are absent in recollections of the experience. Those moments missed the most are as they leave, for it cannot injure that has surely gone like it does happening where spins the hope of length and only the threat of a loss. This Summers turn seems soon like it never happened; the seasons warmth has already become unfamiliar, and the glaciers hard to picture now. How does one make mindful and ethical progress in the world, without a certain rational detachment?