It was a road, or perhaps it was not. Dusty with the echoes of forgotten errands, and strewn with the remnants of yesterday’s ambitions — now merely shadows on gravel.
Amongst the whispers of mundane winds, one may hear the sighs of lost receipts and the laughter of innumerable missed turns. A journey, absurd in its precision, mocked by the irony of destinationless wandering.
Here, where the asphalt kisses oblivion, we ponder: Is the destination real, or just a figment of gasoline-soaked dreams? A faux-existence traversing the faux-real.
Journey to the Hidden Faces