Lane.

I want a lane.
Long enough after the deluge but the air still heavy with petrichor.
I want to walk that lane far from names.
Paracels. Spratly. Isis. Aleppo. Calais. Papua. Baghdad. Liberal. Labor. Turnbull. Shorten. Trump. Clinton. Kopassus. Borders Patrol.
I want that desperately lonely sound underfoot. The sound beloved of all the mad the world over.
I want the distant roar of the now-mollified seas crashing down in the distance.
I want the skies out over the ocean threatening more of the same.
Because I never learned my lessons.
Too lazy to even find out what those lessons were supposed to be.
Too bored to care what the punishment might be.
But I want nightfall to be a long way off.
In fact, in my magnanimity, I may even allow the rain to come again as I walk the lane between verdure and desolation.
Between triumph and tedium.
Between banality and the boast.
Between heaven and human.
I want a lane so badly right now, I can taste the salt wind.
I can feel the relaxedness I yearn for soak into my every pore.
And the more I walk, the less I know.
The less I remember.
The less I am.
The more permanent will I be for the loss.

Over the hills and...