The road is still there — it didn’t vanish as we slept. Likewise its denizens remain
We have ourselves to blame. But maybe we shouldn’t dwell on that. Blame is a rough wine that doesn’t grow finer with age
We wend through the split tires and random scrap metal that litter the scene. Do feathered serpents hibernate or migrate? Saints and Bodhisattvas must have passed this way, and we feel small and unready. We kneel and sniff the ground for traces of their presence
Voices call from the roadside: Relax here, you deserve it. Enjoy this comfort and wait out the chill
We lurch forward, dragging our wounded leg. Sunlight and January cheat each other, leaving us even more disbalanced. Droplets of our blood slither into the road’s cracks and raise images of those who walked it before us. Some whisper hope. Others hiss that we are doomed
Darknesse at the break of noon ; I will tell you why ; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery of your secricie ; moult no feather, I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custome of exercise ; and indeed, it goes so heavenly with my disposition, torne every one who reach’d out for me; it’s all over now, Baby Blue; this most excellent Canopy the Ayre, look you, this minor fall the majore lift, this Majesticall Roofe, fretted with golden fire : why, it appeares no other thing to mee, then a foule and pestilent congregation of vapours. Now, i’ve heard there was a Secrete Chord, but your pain is no Credential here; What a piece of worke is a man! how Noble in Reason? How infinite in faculty, like a Bird on a Wire? In forme and moving how expresse and admirable? and yet to me, what is this Quintessence of Dust gathered from Coincidence? Oh Vengeance! The Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune and the thousand Naturall shockes ; but It’s alright ma, i’m only sighing
With nothing on our tongues but hallelujah: We are not doomed, provided we see through our selves. It’s life, and life only
*** with heavy lifting from Hamlet, Dylan, Cohen