Twisted Slough chasin' your pretty thoughts, and your plastic love

The further he pressed on, the more dense the woodland became. Dense, but no less wet and muddy, of course. That was his luck. Grayday forged ahead through the dark, not pausing even as the sky brightened with dawn and the morning mist turned to icy rain.

In his eagerness to be free of the marshland he spared little thought for what he might find beyond it. His was a journey without any real destination — but he tried not to think about that too much either. Just as a general policy. Tomorrow was just conjecture until it became today, anyway. And today he wanted out of this damn swamp.