Saturday, June 12, 2004

Signs point elsewhere. To the place of ghosts. On the road to nowhere. The lost radiance. On the journey you pick a lot up however. And that is the journey. To not end. Even if nowhere. Always with the empty inside that is yours but along the way, the stops and potholes, rims, shoulders, shatterings, asphalt flowers that are the tradition of the road, and the company.

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