Back on the trail.

The storm lifted.
They always do,
eventually.

And I am at that bus station, on the roads to everywhere, glimpsed by a madman who created whole worlds and was acclaimed as a genius.

Quite often, one and the same.

I pick a bus randomly. Hunting expedition.

My forebears used bowstrings. I have my own set.

This should prove interesting, premiering again after 20 years on a street corner.