He’s been on the road for so long, tired and weary. He travels, what seems to him, endlessly. It all looks the same after awhile, the road, the dreary sky, no matter where he is, everything gray. The people especially, gray, dull, empty. He stops from time to time, tries to fit into places, with people, but the world’s a puzzle and he’s a mismatched piece.
He remembers home, and he wants to go back. He misses home, but he can’t go back. The road is cold and lonely, as is he. He travels to forget, but he probably can’t. He might be dead, the road his Purgatory, but he really doesn’t know. He may never know, as is the nature of such travel. So he goes, his home far away, but never gone.3 comments
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