About halfway through you know, the way is there, but it unfolds from your insides. It is the most intimate path anyone can know, there for only your feet to walk on, and yet connected to every moth, every silky feather, every wanderer on the road. It is yours because you saw it. It spirals out of your own heart, sometimes emerald green and delightful, sometimes pure darkness, horrid images and torn faces, sometimes red and wide and patient.