The road is long, going up hills and down valleys, stretching off into the distance like the point of a needle. The sun will descend soon, and the mountains’ shadow will fill this little stretch of land I’m driving through with darkness, shrouding the pale, yellow grass and crumbling farmhouses in night. There’s not a city near, and this cloudless sky above will turn into the most dazzling display of lights man has ever known.
But I will not know it.
I must drive on through the night, through valleys and hills, drive on past that needle’s point, keep driving, on and on forever, until the road ends. Yet, I am told, the world is a globe, and before I reach my final stop, I may, God knows, find my way back here, or somewhere like it, where the grass is wild and the homes abandoned, where the souls of those buried rest in perfect sleep.
It’s a rest I will never know.
Tale Told 