PHOTO PROMPT © Danny Bowman
“The road goes ever on and on,” he quoted, land hot and still around him.
He was music. Music was him. But the rest was all just a tangle in his head. Rivers of pain, octopus arms strangling him with memories he’d never remember.
He’d come to the point where either he or the world needed to disappear.
History called it a walkabout. He prayed it would be his salvation. The scars on his wrists prayed, too, for salvation.
A thousand empty miles before him. A million broken moments behind.
He took a step and started walking.