I walk north, pacing toward a light that offers darkness no pursuit, navigating standing stones that promise we should all be nomads. What an exciting life. Each day different, another place, another sun. Each day the same sun. We will roam the earth like heroes in movies or in the white house and emancipate people maybe. Anyway what can heroes do these days? Or nomads without heroic intentions. The hero has a home, he's on a mission. It's always nice to be on a mission. You know what to do. It's quite clear. Another problem - can you give yourself a mission, or is it always from someone or something else? If you give yourself a mission you might be considered crazy. Now, let's use 'crazy' as a mission to face the pollard visions of our journey with the fiery pillar of their logic.

But if in the brevity of our lives we stand back, what would we gain? A rusting vehicle. A cache of slowly rotting meat. The metaphor of dissolution is often applied to neophytes; they are allowed to go filthy and identified with the earth—the generalized matter into which every specific individual is rendered down.

Particular form here becomes general matter; often their very names are taken from them, and each is called solely by the brief blessing of a lover's scent. A house whose foundation threatens to collapse. But if we rush forth and pass between the stones unscathed, what will we gain? The illusion of another place?