There is nothing more that I can see behind me except road and there is nothing else to look at in front. And to my left and to my right there are only spikes and misshapen trees that look as though someone a long time ago tried to absorb them from the earth.
Dust gets in my eyes and I think I’ve never felt this thirsty before. I’ve learned to walk on gravel and keep looking at the road, hoping for a sign of life as eerie as may be. I’ve come to see that this is neither steppe nor prairie but mere, simple, audacious road.
It seems I’ve been walking for almost an eternity and that there’s another waiting for me. I can barely remember the name of my crow or where my blood color was supposed to make me go. I know I am green and blue blooded but my claws have turned red from the irony sand and my skin has gone pale and all I resemble now is but a rock.
I am a walking, stalking piece of ground, destined to wander forever around no particular thing he’s found. I’ve come and gone my entire life and now I can’t even remember any reasons for any of it, though they were strong enough to drive me away from any number of homes into this forsaken desert.
I am bored, I am sorry and ready to flee back to whatever home will take me.
I miss my life of every morning, noon and dusk and realize now it is in fact the only thing living should ever come to be: for the reasonable occasion of diving into mediocrity.
I think now I was sent here to be punished for believing I was special in any way with my green color, my blue blood and lizard dismay for anything remotely the same as “everyday”.
So the middle of this road is the start of my journey home. I am no longer on my way, but on my way back home.