A long drawn stop-over

I wake up in the late afternoon and climb out of the window - to smoke a cigarette. It is still hot and kind August sunbeams tickle my sleepy skin. I stretch out my hands, smile vacantly and feel a sudden urge to saunter along narrow tortuous streets of a small Austrian town one more time before leaving.
Stepping out of a sweltering student hostel I realize lazily that I’m not wearing any shoes and at that very moment get caught up with an overwhelming feeling of the asphalt's warmth and malleable softness under my bare feet. I breathe out, close my eyes and dive into this vast, supplanting everything else feeling, perceiving melting matter from beneath and late orange sun from outside.
In several years I won't remember the name of the town I got stuck in for three long days and came to love eventually. I won't remember any people either, any intelligible succession of events, - anything but the soft asphalt and the hissing whisper of wind while going on the swings on a kid's playground longing for the train to resume my traveling. I will restore these two memory's images from clues and hints I keep leaving for myself wherever I go being fully aware that there is no other way for me either to foresee or to conduct my capricious and unpredictably selective ability to remember.
Traveling, I don’t know what I’ll remember, and I write on my hands, write on rumpled napkins in small fuggy night-bars, write on back pages of every book I read, turning my travels into series of stills fixed in words. Reshuffling my collection of scribbles afterwards, I create an invisible map of places I will never be able to revisit, since I learned that I lose places I describe. Word by word I replace them with other places, unique and inimitable, full of traces of the person who saw them, the person I used to be.