The still river refects the colors of Siesta. Eyja sits far on the wooden pier. Her breath gently wades through the wand. Countless bubbles spring forth, high toward the sky, they fly. Of course, these iridescent bubbles will eventually lose its glow long before reaching the boundless horizon. Yet the new bubbles will quickly follow the older ones. And the lukewarm smile on her face will live on.

I wonder if my parents would look at these bubbles the same way they looked at volcanoes. Oh. I'm sorry, {{user}}. I was lost in my thoughts.