Sometimes I find it quite nice to go a wandering. Not really looking for anything in particular, but letting go of all intentions and drifting along the beams of the earth towards unknown nothingness or absolute everythingness. I find it helpful to have a wandering companion with you and a good song in your head. I found a hobo encampment and some number of skeletal remains. Existential personal breakthroughs not being the point of it all, the hobo trash and rat skeletons were an interesting and indecipherable gift for my efforts. Most importantly, I got the damn dog tuckered out.
I knew that hobo stew had to be made of something other than filet mignon. Tasted too much like chicken. And I bet there weren't any cigarette trees or lemonade springs where the bluebird sings in the Big Rock Candy Mountains, either.
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