Nothing exists but the road beneath my feet.
I thought I was in a town yesterday, thought I met people and that they were kind to me. I thought I spent the night, drank their wine and brought news from all parts of the countryside.
But there’s no town that I can see, all I have is the memory.
And memory’s a fickle thing, a thing of light and shadow, quick to deceive. Only a fool would trust it.
Not like the road.
The road is real, beneath me. It has weight.
The rest is nothing more than a dream.
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