Well...what makes you think I need a reason to think? I don't even need a will. My mind has one of its own. One minute she's strolling quietly on the peaceful alley and vrrrrruuuuum she flies the next second. She is quick, she is too quick. Sometimes she brings me right to the exhaustion wall. I can barely keep pace. said she, staring out the window, grasping at the boy right across the street, while he was pouring a hot cup of coffee, probably meant for his girlfriend.
Indeed her mind had a mind of her own. It, or she, even had legs faster than all the runners she knew, faster even than the planes and the racing cars. And she seriously started thinking that it, or she, had even at least one pair of hands with which it, or she, used to choke her poor frightened soul every time the soul got a bit bigger and happier and with which it, or she, used to make beautiful butterflies and sometimes hoards of moths which it, or she, afterwards would let loose inside her aching stomach.
The sight of that boy was no good sight for her, as her mind started releasing the moths. So she turned away, just in time to miss the boy's gesture: he was reaching out the arm carrying the hand carrying the coffee, to her.
He could see her, watching this
but he couldn't understand a word.
You see, he didn't speak French. So he turned to his guitar and asked her to start giving him some French lessons. So she did, only after asking why and only after hearing the romantic answer of his love story. Like any respectable guitar, she couldn't say No to love stories.
After a while, out of the blue, he started singing this