I am a wandering pilgrim who knows not what he seeks, or what he runs from. Long have I traveled through lands I cannot tell if anyone has ever been, for people are sometimes mysterious and leave no traces of themselves. These trails — were they creations of some treading machine, or have they grooved themselves under countless footsteps? I sleep where I can, cover myself against the night, though I know if the wolves do come, I have no protection from them. Will I know it when I get there, will I understand it when I see? I have the feeling that I will make it, though I don't know why. It is just when the sun is shining upon my face, in these moments there is enough right in the world to give me hope, to keep me on the road to lands I have never been, to search as if my salvation awaits me at the end of my wandering....
