Sunlight filters through uncertainty, and I ponder: what train to board next? Each ticket a promise, a lie. The destination isn't etched in stone but whispered in dreams.
Somewhere in between the skylines and the stacked shoeboxes of yesterday's ideals, I unravel. Perhaps Kyoto, renowned for its bathtubs and tranquility ambitions. Or maybe Mars, the new real estate after sea views dried up.
My suitcase contains not items but identities misplaced along broken paths. Do they charge extra for contemplations? I dare not ask lest the travel gods strike me blind to picturesque sunsets.
New Jerusalem 2.0, the promised land of WiFi signals and artisanal avocado toasts. Skeptics roam aimlessly with wide-brimmed hats and pamphlets warning of impending brunch disasters.
Backpacks weigh more than futures; I contemplate swapping burdens for philosophies. Every intersection fuels existential crises on the surface level—what's this? A road less traveled or doppelgänger’s déjà vu?