Like seasonless fowl we migrate…
from East Coast to West Coast
and back and forth again,
for a job,
for a friend,
for a change,
for a kick.

Bedtime is daytime,
and we come into bloom
after midnight.

What's Your Road, Man?

Galatea Dunkel was a tenacious loser.

Lured by smooth roads onto a new turnpike, he read with surprise the rules he was handed, don't stop, don't turn around, pay when you get there; he made his escape at the first exit he saw, for fiftyfive cents, and now he was on the old road buzzing the staid turnpike by turns over and under, teasing it crazy.

I'm in the middle of the road, it seems vague of unclear way, of where I'm going but no matter what the road throws at me, no matter what challenges, obstacles or difficulties I come across, I won't turn back now I rather be absorbed by the way, be lost in the way than to admit defeat, for such so long so far I have traveled yet so long, so far to be traveled.