– It was your idea, you know.

He’s talking to himself again. The plane, the train, the escape. Sometimes there’s nothing to be done but to burn it all to the ground and start again far away.

– You’ll miss things, people.

A tender hearted curmudgeon with two score years already trickled out of him, this time it isn’t to chase furtive loves or flee the black horde of fears and sorrows that infest the soul, nor even a resonance of the voluptuous days of his past tempting him to attempt an impossible return.

He hopes she is sleeping peacefully, forgetful.

– Where are we going this time?

He shrugs his shoulders, walking after swift whispers that passed over wires: Berlin, Zagreb, Istanbul.

– If this is such a good plan, why doesn’t it feel like it?

Because even the fierce fanged tiger weeps and laments at the loss of his forest.

This entry is part of my journal, published January 22, 2013, in New York.