The dark alleyway glimmered with sighs.  
The lost, the weary, and the agitated gathered here for meaning.  
Those who had found nothing and those with nothing to lose stood shoulder to shoulder in the cascading rainfall. Waiting, the waiting was always the worst part.  
The walks, the receiving, the humiliation, none of it compared to the waiting.  

There was no certainty with the waiting.  There was always a certainty with the walks, as long as your legs moved and your feet could withstand your weight you could walk, and as long as there were the cursed there were the scoffers.  


But waiting, waiting has no agenda.  

With time misery etches its name into the souls of the wandering in the manor of strife and downcast faces.  Those who had forgotten the wandering blotted out the memory of fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters.  

Sons and daughters and former flames were cast out into the din, possession was no more.  Any possession would be an enlightened experience even if it meant the wandering were the possession.  
Love, compassion, peace, joy. None.

Lost...


The only virtue was humility.  Humility and self-control.  What the wondering seek is to be found. And to be found is to live. And to live is to have faith. And to have faith is to experience joy. And to experience joy is to find meaning.  

The wandering-found.