note #200

who knows how long he wandered - time had no meaning in this strange place. he travelled over rocky shores, through bleached white woods where no birdsong rang out, along grey meadows and fields where the rustle of the grasses sounded like the shifting of the dead in their graves. nothing lived that he could see.

no dead appeared in crags or hollows, left to rot until their bones became yet another part of the barren landscape. at night no predators made noises in the distance, no insects buzzed or whined at any point of day. he was alone. 

after some time he came upon a vast, steely expanse of water. he fashioned a boat from the bone-white trees and set himself adrift. at times he paddled, at others he simply stared up at the slate sky, or at the waves around him, lost between the sea and sky. 

eventually he reached a shore - the same he had left or another, he could not tell. here it was the same. he was as alone and lost as before. 

how long he wandered no one knows - perhaps he wanders still.