Smokestacks spew animal ghosts into clouds which run off giddy and confused. I spy old Mr death out on the road ahead, he walks in broad daylight, tipping his hat and grinning at friends yet to come, all pinstriped and chaotic. A journey such as mine will bring death to my heels but I climb a tree regardless.
A blanket of fog swept over hillsides and nestled on the road ahead, giving me time to wipe crows from my shoulders and think on journeys past. By noon the sun had painted far off villages with soft light and longing and fearing only beetles and stilt men I gathered my dwarves and carpets and continued on.
My eyes awake to honey coated skylines and peppermint clowns teaching animals to sing, there is an awareness in me now, a feeling of place and time holding me to the spot like rags on barbed wire fences. I count faces in clouds and smile when spiders try to steal my legs. I have seen such things which amount to nothing and envied youth which crumbles to dust. A man on stilts asks me to follow him and I think of nothing better to do.