Sometimes I go visit the end of the railroad. I sit down on the tracks, drink wine and think back to the time when I had somewhere I had to be, desperately. It ends in a wall about seven feet tall that's been newly painted by some hooligan I cherished. When I first wound up there I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I tried climbing that wall for a few hours or days, trying to go further than I needed to be. But I never did like the destination bit anyway. So I wandered off and found some new uncharted way to be for a time. Every now and again I get the urge to reminisce. I trot on back to the place and remind myself of the bliss of knowing what the hell I was doing or where I was going. I tag my name on a corner somewhere, trudge down the tracks onto the parking lot, hop in my car and go home.