Just find the place that we were supposed to be. But how was that? There was no signs, no defined road in the endless roads of dirt. Just one possible turn to another that seemed indefinable after only a few steps. Just find a way home, just find the way that should be gone. There is no longer that chance. It is gone just as the problems that came with it. Passed are the levies of struggle. Now there are only the chance of no chances. Never has it been so blank, yet, it is as familiar as every other day. Maybe one day there will come a time where there might be something found. Though, the chance to be gotten so late is that of a penny finding its edge.

Sickness spreads through and through. Only energy for fighting the struggle: that endless conflict of control and chaos. Which shall reign? When will it be decided? Are there and signs as those roads are chosen, are those roads chosen? As being slowly lead through the patterns of roads that are random, are they chosen or already decided. Nothing but conflict through contradiction. These blue orbs that had shown such a hope and possibility have gone like the road that was left behind. Never to be looked back upon again. Never is there the chance to go back, but that is only good. The simpleness of never worrying about it.

Follow the soul and push the fog away. Never would there be another problem of confusion. There would be no dissention among the ranks. Flowing and organized. Where has the sun gone? Behind clouds that have no movement and clouds that have no interests of seeing their outline on the ground again. To the day of time only life and death are concerned.

Falling through and finding the end, there is no end only another level of roads that hold only changed possibilities. Yet, the struggle hasn’t changed. Travel like wind over the rocks and move like water dodging them. Down are the eyes cast only to realize there is no reason, defy, deny. Who ever said it had to end with that one?