Nowhere man

A man with a walking staff, in a car, without a map, without a sound, in Hungary, in Ireland, in England, in San Francisco, in Birmingham, in Madrid, in Auckland, on the dirt, on the road, on the earth, on the path, by the sea, in the forest --steps out-- a drafty filigree lace armor against the cold.

And in that alone, with a sack, a briefcase, a saddlebag alone, finding by his wits alone, a singular solace in alone. The day rises and falls, heaves and breathes, and still he walks. The seasons shimmer and wane, the moon changes and falls, and still he walks. The lantern, the flashlight in the abandoned towns, the urchin-crusted, black-tarred streets of the metropolis, the vibrating clusters of trees, the roar of the seas, all audience to his passing through --a gypsy without a caravan.

The flash of a match ignites.