drifting.

but it is fate, really—a blood born compass places him back here.

the rise looms ahead of him, barren.

he presses his nose to the soil and finds

it is nothing but soil.

and so, in his calloused way, he turns and sets off in a new direction.

he found there is something freeing in this lonesome,

he owes nothing.

beneath his feet he feels the world keep spinning.