Moving is more complicated than it appears. The act of motion one would first imagine as being propelling. Until you realize you have passed the same landmark yet again. You gave up counting because it reminded you of how gullible you really are. Markers in time or maybe little stamps placed on the soul like the tasteless mementos we purchase at gas stations when we are on road trips.

How can now be so present and timeless at the same time? Forwardly thinking, hoping--propelling to the next stop on the road. The journey has no script and whatever notes you can find spread between the intersections may have been edited to mislead you into thinking you're headed in the right direction. In fact, you can't even trust your survival instincts at this moment. It's all subjective and the notion of faith in surviving has all but dissipated.