I strayed here on a pathway of words, where others had walked before. I stamped on their vocabulary and punctuation, seeking to find a meaning of my own, but the path was worn deep with many footsteps. I struggled to stray beyond its confines, found myself foundering in the well-trodden mud, but myself and his expression could not be found. At the very end of weariness, I took off my boots, stepped onto the grass, felt the chill and the softness, the surprise of the insect’s bite. That’s me, off over the hill, barefoot on the rocks now, toes in the stream. You won’t find me on the path. It’s not the place for someone searching.