The Journey
 

Our hero is on a journey. Where it will lead to, only this thread will show. What the hero seeks, only time will tell.

No rules outside of "write what it's worth," and keep to the theme of a "journey" ....

-------------------------------------------------------

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw me in the window and waved.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw me in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw me in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

He stretched an arm back and shuffled through the papers carpeting the floor, lazily fingering for Rand McNally. He tapped a box instead- Winstons left over from last night. A shake ensured that at least half a dozen remained, and he replaced his toothpick with a cigarette.

The inward breath felt as good as Sarah's skin on his haggard face. He felt his shoulders relax and his eyebrows smooth.

The map.

They were headed south... they would reach the border in four hours. He suddenly felt anxiety at the prospect of change. Sara was young: ten years his junior, and adept at new environments. All he had ever known was four walls, ten hour days, six or seven day weeks. How was he going to handle time governed by his own mind?

He sucked deeply, eyes half-lidded. The cigarette- burnt to the filter- burned his fingers and he jumped as it fell to the floor.

Sarah glanced to him as he reached and flicked it out of the window and smiled again. "Smart guy." She pinted to her empty coffee cup. "Ashes go here."

He exhaled, and fingers used to fufilling tasks ached to be useful again. He fiddled with the golden Winston box.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

He stretched an arm back and shuffled through the papers carpeting the floor, lazily fingering for Rand McNally. He tapped a box instead- Winstons left over from last night. A shake ensured that at least half a dozen remained, and he replaced his toothpick with a cigarette.

The inward breath felt as good as Sarah's skin on his haggard face. He felt his shoulders relax and his eyebrows smooth.

The map.

They were headed south... they would reach the border in four hours. He suddenly felt anxiety at the prospect of change. Sara was young: ten years his junior, and adept at new environments. All he had ever known was four walls, ten hour days, six or seven day weeks. How was he going to handle time governed by his own mind?

He sucked deeply, eyes half-lidded. The cigarette- burnt to the filter- burned his fingers and he jumped as it fell to the floor.

Sarah glanced to him as he reached and flicked it out of the window and smiled again. "Smart guy." She pointed to her empty coffee cup. "Ashes go here."

He exhaled, and fingers used to fufilling tasks ached to be useful again. He fiddled with the golden Winston box.

About midnight they pulled into an interstate rest stop. The chicadas were performing their nightly symphony, and all other cars roomate-ing with them that night seemed quiet. The sound of their tires over gravel as they rolled to a stop near a stand of trees seemed intrusive to the solitude.

"We should probably crash for a bit," said Sara, folding her body over the front seat, searching in the back for a blanket.

"Ok, but I have to pee," he said, the overhead light momentarily blinding them both.

Outside the air was cool. Compared to the sauna they'd driven in all day, it was a relief. He took a deep breath of the night air and began walking towards the stand of trees.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

He stretched an arm back and shuffled through the papers carpeting the floor, lazily fingering for Rand McNally. He tapped a box instead- Winstons left over from last night. A shake ensured that at least half a dozen remained, and he replaced his toothpick with a cigarette.

The inward breath felt as good as Sarah's skin on his haggard face. He felt his shoulders relax and his eyebrows smooth.

The map.

They were headed south... they would reach the border in four hours. He suddenly felt anxiety at the prospect of change. Sara was young: ten years his junior, and adept at new environments. All he had ever known was four walls, ten hour days, six or seven day weeks. How was he going to handle time governed by his own mind?

He sucked deeply, eyes half-lidded. The cigarette- burnt to the filter- burned his fingers and he jumped as it fell to the floor.

Sarah glanced to him as he reached and flicked it out of the window and smiled again. "Smart guy." She pointed to her empty coffee cup. "Ashes go here."

He exhaled, and fingers used to fufilling tasks ached to be useful again. He fiddled with the golden Winston box.

About midnight they pulled into an interstate rest stop. The chicadas were performing their nightly symphony, and all other cars roomate-ing with them that night seemed quiet. The sound of their tires over gravel as they rolled to a stop near a stand of trees seemed intrusive to the solitude.

"We should probably crash for a bit," said Sara, folding her body over the front seat, searching in the back for a blanket.

"Ok, but I have to pee," he said, the overhead light momentarily blinding them both.

Outside the air was cool. Compared to the sauna they'd driven in all day, it was a relief. He took a deep breath of the night air and began walking towards the stand of trees.

It was a relief to walk. To stretch his legs- to be free, to be a man! He stared at the moon while his liquid stream played the pebbles like piano keys. The moon was full, a sign of wolfish virility, and he grunted as he zipped up his pants.

Like his past life of failure and dependance, he felt his body fail him as he issued a mental command.

" Go."

His steps halted as he ran, he ached to look back, and his lungs felt wrapped in bands. The dim light along with the adrenalin rush gave him fuel for his anger... Anger at an impotent life, an impotent mind, and an impotent....

"GO."


Sweat rolled down his temples. His white undershirt clung to his back. Neck rhythmically thrusting forward with every step and arms at right angles pumping back and forth... His head throbbed with lack of oxygen.



"Go."

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

He stretched an arm back and shuffled through the papers carpeting the floor, lazily fingering for Rand McNally. He tapped a box instead- Winstons left over from last night. A shake ensured that at least half a dozen remained, and he replaced his toothpick with a cigarette.

The inward breath felt as good as Sarah's skin on his haggard face. He felt his shoulders relax and his eyebrows smooth.

The map.

They were headed south... they would reach the border in four hours. He suddenly felt anxiety at the prospect of change. Sara was young: ten years his junior, and adept at new environments. All he had ever known was four walls, ten hour days, six or seven day weeks. How was he going to handle time governed by his own mind?

He sucked deeply, eyes half-lidded. The cigarette- burnt to the filter- burned his fingers and he jumped as it fell to the floor.

Sarah glanced to him as he reached and flicked it out of the window and smiled again. "Smart guy." She pointed to her empty coffee cup. "Ashes go here."

He exhaled, and fingers used to fufilling tasks ached to be useful again. He fiddled with the golden Winston box.

About midnight they pulled into an interstate rest stop. The chicadas were performing their nightly symphony, and all other cars roomate-ing with them that night seemed quiet. The sound of their tires over gravel as they rolled to a stop near a stand of trees seemed intrusive to the solitude.

"We should probably crash for a bit," said Sara, folding her body over the front seat, searching in the back for a blanket.

"Ok, but I have to pee," he said, the overhead light momentarily blinding them both.

Outside the air was cool. Compared to the sauna they'd driven in all day, it was a relief. He took a deep breath of the night air and began walking towards the stand of trees.

It was a relief to walk. To stretch his legs- to be free, to be a man! He stared at the moon while his liquid stream played the pebbles like piano keys. The moon was full, a sign of wolfish virility, and he grunted as he zipped up his pants.

Like his past life of failure and dependance, he felt his body fail him as he issued a mental command.

" Go."

His steps halted as he ran, he ached to look back, and his lungs felt wrapped in bands. The dim light along with the adrenalin rush gave him fuel for his anger... Anger at an impotent life, an impotent mind, and an impotent....

"GO."


Sweat rolled down his temples. His white undershirt clung to his back. Neck rhythmically thrusting forward with every step and arms at right angles pumping back and forth... His head throbbed with lack of oxygen.



"Go."

It was then that he spotted her. A scrap of the imagination. Huddled beneath a low-lying tree, arms wrapped around her knees, hugging herself. He knew she was alone the second her eyes looked up from beneath greasy bangs to look into his. A lost girl. Her jeans were ripped at the knees and her hair was a mass of tangles.

One look from her and he stopped dead in his tracks. It was funny how simple glances from women could do that to him.

She couldn't have been more than seven.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

He stretched an arm back and shuffled through the papers carpeting the floor, lazily fingering for Rand McNally. He tapped a box instead- Winstons left over from last night. A shake ensured that at least half a dozen remained, and he replaced his toothpick with a cigarette.

The inward breath felt as good as Sarah's skin on his haggard face. He felt his shoulders relax and his eyebrows smooth.

The map.

They were headed south... they would reach the border in four hours. He suddenly felt anxiety at the prospect of change. Sara was young: ten years his junior, and adept at new environments. All he had ever known was four walls, ten hour days, six or seven day weeks. How was he going to handle time governed by his own mind?

He sucked deeply, eyes half-lidded. The cigarette- burnt to the filter- burned his fingers and he jumped as it fell to the floor.

Sarah glanced to him as he reached and flicked it out of the window and smiled again. "Smart guy." She pointed to her empty coffee cup. "Ashes go here."

He exhaled, and fingers used to fufilling tasks ached to be useful again. He fiddled with the golden Winston box.

About midnight they pulled into an interstate rest stop. The chicadas were performing their nightly symphony, and all other cars roomate-ing with them that night seemed quiet. The sound of their tires over gravel as they rolled to a stop near a stand of trees seemed intrusive to the solitude.

"We should probably crash for a bit," said Sara, folding her body over the front seat, searching in the back for a blanket.

"Ok, but I have to pee," he said, the overhead light momentarily blinding them both.

Outside the air was cool. Compared to the sauna they'd driven in all day, it was a relief. He took a deep breath of the night air and began walking towards the stand of trees.

It was a relief to walk. To stretch his legs- to be free, to be a man! He stared at the moon while his liquid stream played the pebbles like piano keys. The moon was full, a sign of wolfish virility, and he grunted as he zipped up his pants.

Like his past life of failure and dependance, he felt his body fail him as he issued a mental command.

" Go."

His steps halted as he ran, he ached to look back, and his lungs felt wrapped in bands. The dim light along with the adrenalin rush gave him fuel for his anger... Anger at an impotent life, an impotent mind, and an impotent....

"GO."


Sweat rolled down his temples. His white undershirt clung to his back. Neck rhythmically thrusting forward with every step and arms at right angles pumping back and forth... His head throbbed with lack of oxygen.



"Go."

It was then that he spotted her. A scrap of the imagination. Huddled beneath a low-lying tree, arms wrapped around her knees, hugging herself. He knew she was alone the second her eyes looked up from beneath greasy bangs to look into his. A lost girl. Her jeans were ripped at the knees and her hair was a mass of tangles.

One look from her and he stopped dead in his tracks. It was funny how simple glances from women could do that to him.

She couldn't have been more than seven. His head whirled. How do you deal with children again? It had been so long since he had spoken to one. She interrupted his thoughts.

"Daddy?"


He shook his head once and hunkered to the ground for his advance towards her. Arms out as if to feed a cat, he cooed soft reassurances which were broken only by her staccatto breaths. A sob wracked her torso, causing her hands to slightly shift from covering her face.

Blood was slowly tricking down the left side of her cheek.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

He stretched an arm back and shuffled through the papers carpeting the floor, lazily fingering for Rand McNally. He tapped a box instead- Winstons left over from last night. A shake ensured that at least half a dozen remained, and he replaced his toothpick with a cigarette.

The inward breath felt as good as Sarah's skin on his haggard face. He felt his shoulders relax and his eyebrows smooth.

The map.

They were headed south... they would reach the border in four hours. He suddenly felt anxiety at the prospect of change. Sara was young: ten years his junior, and adept at new environments. All he had ever known was four walls, ten hour days, six or seven day weeks. How was he going to handle time governed by his own mind?

He sucked deeply, eyes half-lidded. The cigarette- burnt to the filter- burned his fingers and he jumped as it fell to the floor.

Sarah glanced to him as he reached and flicked it out of the window and smiled again. "Smart guy." She pointed to her empty coffee cup. "Ashes go here."

He exhaled, and fingers used to fufilling tasks ached to be useful again. He fiddled with the golden Winston box.

About midnight they pulled into an interstate rest stop. The chicadas were performing their nightly symphony, and all other cars roomate-ing with them that night seemed quiet. The sound of their tires over gravel as they rolled to a stop near a stand of trees seemed intrusive to the solitude.

"We should probably crash for a bit," said Sara, folding her body over the front seat, searching in the back for a blanket.

"Ok, but I have to pee," he said, the overhead light momentarily blinding them both.

Outside the air was cool. Compared to the sauna they'd driven in all day, it was a relief. He took a deep breath of the night air and began walking towards the stand of trees.

It was a relief to walk. To stretch his legs- to be free, to be a man! He stared at the moon while his liquid stream played the pebbles like piano keys. The moon was full, a sign of wolfish virility, and he grunted as he zipped up his pants.

Like his past life of failure and dependance, he felt his body fail him as he issued a mental command.

" Go."

His steps halted as he ran, he ached to look back, and his lungs felt wrapped in bands. The dim light along with the adrenalin rush gave him fuel for his anger... Anger at an impotent life, an impotent mind, and an impotent....

"GO."


Sweat rolled down his temples. His white undershirt clung to his back. Neck rhythmically thrusting forward with every step and arms at right angles pumping back and forth... His head throbbed with lack of oxygen.



"Go."

It was then that he spotted her. A scrap of the imagination. Huddled beneath a low-lying tree, arms wrapped around her knees, hugging herself. He knew she was alone the second her eyes looked up from beneath greasy bangs to look into his. A lost girl. Her jeans were ripped at the knees and her hair was a mass of tangles.

One look from her and he stopped dead in his tracks. It was funny how simple glances from women could do that to him.

She couldn't have been more than seven. His head whirled. How do you deal with children again? It had been so long since he had spoken to one. She interrupted his thoughts.

"Daddy?"


He shook his head once and hunkered to the ground for his advance towards her. Arms out as if to feed a cat, he cooed soft reassurances which were broken only by her staccatto breaths. A sob wracked her torso, causing her hands to slightly shift from covering her face.

Blood was slowly tricking down the left side of her cheek.

"Hey Dan, have you fallen into a ditch or someth..."

It was Sara.

He turned his head to see her staring at the child. She looked confused, almost scared. Like in a fugue, she shook her head and slowly turned her gaze to him.

"What?" she said softly.

"Dunno," he said. "Just found her here."

His first impulse was to run. Suddenly his feet so previously stuck in molasses seemed to want to echo his ever-increasing heartbeat in that fight or flight feeling. Right now, flight was winning.

It was the dusty rays of sunlight that first awoke him. The window open, prickling light warming his skin, the forlorn sound of a train departing somewhere in the distance.

It was time. He knew he had to go, but he'd been procrastinating. Under a pile of covers, twisted with sleep, an eye opened. And then shut again. He pulled the pillow over his head and lay there, breathing.

Visions called to him, that familiar itch starting to pulse beneath his eyes, the passion igniting within his veins. To be moving again, to be free again. A smile tugging at his lips, a song tickling the back of his throat, he threw aside the covers and greeted his day.

It had been 10 good long years that he'd been stuck in this city -- going from one dead-end job to another. Shuffling to work, to home, to work, to home. Sun rises, sun sets, not much else to look forward to. But he knew that this sunrise was different.

Stretching, he pried his fingers between the slats of his blinds, bending them in a semi-u shape and grinned again. Sara was already outside, sitting on the hood of her 1978 Plymouth Satellite, sipping coffee. She saw him in the window and waved.

He had met Sara a few weeks ago at a coffee shop. She was everything he wasn't. Outgoing, carefree, a ball of energy. She had an ability to make a group of complete strangers feel like they’d just survived an airplane crash together.

And that's what got him thinking -- about his life, about schlepping to and from work, about everything. She inspired that in him. The itch he had dulled with too many drinks over too many years was finally hitting him. He was coming to the surface of a very deep sleep, catatonic some might say, and he was realizing that life was out there. Calling him. And she with it.

He turned from the window and surveyed the room. He had not packed the night before, that would've made it the whole thing a little too planned. Somewhere in his mind he knew only a spur of the moment action could set him free from this life as it was. Any thinking about it, and he would've be dragged back in by a whirlpool of decisions and responsibilities. And now he yearned to act directly. He grabbed a dufflebag and started stuffing the contents of his drawers into it. Shirts, socks, underpants. At the bottom of one drawer he found the diary he had once kept. It had lain in that drawer undisturbed through all the years he lived here. He threw it into the bag. The drawers emptied, he again scanned the room - nothing, nothing from this life registered on his emotions. He left it all and walked through the door.

Sara held out a paper cup emblazoned with the name of the outlet down the street. "I got you some," she said, squinting a little as the sun hit her face.

He took it, sneaking peeks at her as he did, still unable to believe that she wanted to be with him. "Thanks," he said, meaning more than the coffee. She heard it, and smiled broadly.

"Anytime."

The car was hot and the seats were sticky, but it didn't matter, he was finally committed to ... well, to nothing. They drove in silence as the grit and poverty of ubania smoothly blended with wealth and vanilla of suburbia; then melted into nothing.

They had no clue where they were going. They just drove -- Sara behind the wheel of her monolith of a vehicle. American made, guzzling up more oil than gas, 10 extra pints in the trunk.

"So," he said, lazily stretching his arms to the roof and cracking his back. "Where to?"

Sara looked over and said nothing. She never needed to. She defied every conventional belief he had previously held. She smiled and looked back to the darting yellow slices on melting concrete.

He stretched an arm back and shuffled through the papers carpeting the floor, lazily fingering for Rand McNally. He tapped a box instead- Winstons left over from last night. A shake ensured that at least half a dozen remained, and he replaced his toothpick with a cigarette.

The inward breath felt as good as Sarah's skin on his haggard face. He felt his shoulders relax and his eyebrows smooth.

The map.

They were headed south... they would reach the border in four hours. He suddenly felt anxiety at the prospect of change. Sara was young: ten years his junior, and adept at new environments. All he had ever known was four walls, ten hour days, six or seven day weeks. How was he going to handle time governed by his own mind?

He sucked deeply, eyes half-lidded. The cigarette- burnt to the filter- burned his fingers and he jumped as it fell to the floor.

Sarah glanced to him as he reached and flicked it out of the window and smiled again. "Smart guy." She pointed to her empty coffee cup. "Ashes go here."

He exhaled, and fingers used to fufilling tasks ached to be useful again. He fiddled with the golden Winston box.

About midnight they pulled into an interstate rest stop. The chicadas were performing their nightly symphony, and all other cars roomate-ing with them that night seemed quiet. The sound of their tires over gravel as they rolled to a stop near a stand of trees seemed intrusive to the solitude.

"We should probably crash for a bit," said Sara, folding her body over the front seat, searching in the back for a blanket.

"Ok, but I have to pee," he said, the overhead light momentarily blinding them both.

Outside the air was cool. Compared to the sauna they'd driven in all day, it was a relief. He took a deep breath of the night air and began walking towards the stand of trees.

It was a relief to walk. To stretch his legs- to be free, to be a man! He stared at the moon while his liquid stream played the pebbles like piano keys. The moon was full, a sign of wolfish virility, and he grunted as he zipped up his pants.

Like his past life of failure and dependance, he felt his body fail him as he issued a mental command.

" Go."

His steps halted as he ran, he ached to look back, and his lungs felt wrapped in bands. The dim light along with the adrenalin rush gave him fuel for his anger... Anger at an impotent life, an impotent mind, and an impotent....

"GO."


Sweat rolled down his temples. His white undershirt clung to his back. Neck rhythmically thrusting forward with every step and arms at right angles pumping back and forth... His head throbbed with lack of oxygen.



"Go."

It was then that he spotted her. A scrap of the imagination. Huddled beneath a low-lying tree, arms wrapped around her knees, hugging herself. He knew she was alone the second her eyes looked up from beneath greasy bangs to look into his. A lost girl. Her jeans were ripped at the knees and her hair was a mass of tangles.

One look from her and he stopped dead in his tracks. It was funny how simple glances from women could do that to him.

She couldn't have been more than seven. His head whirled. How do you deal with children again? It had been so long since he had spoken to one. She interrupted his thoughts.

"Daddy?"


He shook his head once and hunkered to the ground for his advance towards her. Arms out as if to feed a cat, he cooed soft reassurances which were broken only by her staccatto breaths. A sob wracked her torso, causing her hands to slightly shift from covering her face.

Blood was slowly tricking down the left side of her cheek.

"Hey Dan, have you fallen into a ditch or someth..."

It was Sara.

He turned his head to see her staring at the child. She looked confused, almost scared. Like in a fugue, she shook her head and slowly turned her gaze to him.

"What?" she said softly.

"Dunno," he said. "Just found her here."

His first impulse was to run. Suddenly his feet so previously stuck in molasses seemed to want to echo his ever-increasing heartbeat in that fight or flight feeling. Right now, flight was winning.

He stumbled while he wheeled to face Sarah. Grabbing her forearm, he peered into her eyes for the future.

"Who is she? Why is she following us?"

Sarah's lips moved, but for once, she didn't have the words.

" Where have I seen her before?" He screamed in a whisper as he grabbed Sarah's other arm.

Her eyes met his briefly and fluttered down. Eyes green as moss, rimmed in sepia. He stepped to the girl and brushed her hair from her face. Tender to his touch- but uneager to make eye contact, the girl turned from him.

He was only able to percieve a glimpse of deep green eyes hidden in the deep shadows. So familiar to him.