The hour grows tired. Minutes pass as if mired. Dull in their moment, hazy in their memory. Move, and it must towards that time of sleep, but not dream. If it were a matter of dreams, mine then in distant horizon. Chased by only sun and wish. It’s on that road, through rain and ice, and every chill that sky and wind can deliver. It’s there. That place, without lethargy, the plodding of footsteps that seem to go anywhere but forward in this cold. I am here though. There is where I need to go.