He was standing in an old road, rutted and ancient, that wound up a black hill towards the sky, where a great flock of black birds was gathering. The birds were like black letters against the grey of the sky. He thought that in a moment he would understand what the writing meant. The stones in the ancient road were symbols foretelling the travelers journey.
26 March 2010
And at home wherever I blow.
The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land. -G.K. Chesterton
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