Is there that where the sun hangs a little longer than it should, but not so long to deny the night? The road grows cold too quickly. Every breeze cuts through my coat. Every cigarette seems to burn a little quicker, and then there is no companion except these worn shoes.
That I’ve enough of light to make it one more mile. That tiny bit of casted glow just so I can see my way home. I walk upon trackless steppes, barren in my sight. The wayfire burns that much less. The dark that much deeper. The ground an unforgiving bed, and the morning a blur of sleep that left all too soon.
It is about loss. That even if I go there, that place that always beyond the next hill, it’s gone. That place that I’ve loved from the start, that I can no longer see.
Trudge forward. The gamble of dust, a cold hearth, and empty chalices await.