the destinations rarely know us. though we've been before. as strangers. as drifting choices in an ocean of maybes. as motes of defiance in time's bottomless pit.
we go wildly. muted breath. heavy gait. absorbed by the fury of our struggle. a relentless piston in the engine of our discontent.
the grief is gone. the pain is spent. and we find ourselves richer for it. there is nothing left to want. or need.
only a thrist for more miles that cannot be quenched.