Not all roads are created equal. Someone said that there's no progress to be made if you're on the wrong road.
How cruel this road: pointing and promising, lying and leading nowhere. Bruised, bleeding feet slog in monotonous ruts and never suspicion the insanity. Throngs gorge at endless tables and starve, drink from every cup and cough dust. They pursue completeness but die unfinished, their last coin invested in imposters who leave souls to rustle like parched fields. Why, on this road, is there weariness after every pleasure? Why, in every oasis, does exhaustion bead on blistered brows? What is this strange homesickness under each roof and choking on darkness midday?
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