A walk through the flea market in Geneve

Abstract is the mind, abstract are the thoughts, lost you stand in the middle of nowhere, the sun shines through the clouds, bizarre is this bubble, no one speaks your language, you smell the sweet smell of marijuana, it plays around with your senses, you seek it out, you chase it, you need it to fight the misery.

Treasures from around the world reach out to you, the broken used smoking pipes, the junk jewels once donned by the fortunate few, the caravan selling its wee delights.

The old men, the older women, their ancient robes and their treasures all up for sale.