And a question mark.
Though, I’m not sure there ever was an answer.
The trees extend for miles in every direction, my feet dangle above the matted mess of the natural children, elderly, midlife crisis-ee’s. The winds urge me to move, gently pressing the back of my shirt against my skin.
Isolated, lonely, free.
Siberia, Sierra, Sahara.
I’ve nothing material, nothing I’ll ever want.
What I need is taken as I need.
What I can give is given as I see.
I’ve no real life out here.
I’ve no real life at all.