Why do I wake while morning is still night?
I grope along endless caverns, it seems, descending many fathoms deep into memories of the past, and dreams of the future, my hand outstretched, a flickering candle in the curl of my fingers.
Journeys that – in the present light of day – I struggle to recall. And I am a tourist there, though I carry no passport and leave no footprints.
People whisper, muttering: “Oh, he looks tired. Something wrong with him?”
Yet I just smile because I know my pockets were sewn with fortune-thread. And I know I am the ragged onward-goer, the ever-forward marcher.
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