the Lakeland Jack in the Green

At this point I am entirely convinced that it is a good idea for me to take my money and run as far north as I can, marchstepping communities on my way, following a path of ravens. The endless, still-young fields of green pine trees as far as the eye can see beckon me with their tall, dead and gray grandfathers watching over them, and poking through the colour like the segmented spine of some long-dead icon elder; a dread shaitan bathed in flies, vertebrae combing the air with it's fingers.

Eventually, I would find my way to Uranium City, where my bones would become irradiated. And as I continued to wander, now more Westward, they would decay beneath my flesh, leaving nothing for the necropolis but my skin and my hair. And in losing my body I would wander too far, and find myself early in Summerland, where backtrack Northeast would take much longer than I'd think.

But in a lifetime of trying, there would come a morning when I would arrive over the mountain with the dawn, and descend from my sanctuary to the land of my yearning. Neverborn to the night and blanketed in the somnolence of my dreams.