First we ride a bike and the words feel light and quick, like “pedal,” “spoke,” and “wind.” The rhythm of the pedals turns the language into a steady beat. Next we hop on a train, and the words shift to “track,” “whistle,” and “shudder,” all of them echoing the slow, humming motion of the carriage. Then we go by boat, and the verbs soften to “sway,” “glide,” and “splash,” as if the language itself is being carried by the water. After that we jump on a scooter, and the diction gets sharp and sharp again, with “zoom,” “flash,” and “swoosh,” mirroring the sudden bursts of speed. Finally we meet a llama, who walks beside us. The words change again, now gentle and reflective, as if the llama is whispering poetry in a soft, patient tone. It says things like “slow steps,” “warm breath,” and “quiet insight,” and those words weave the whole trip into a quiet, almost lyrical narrative that keeps the journey alive in the mind.