You want me? Fucking well come and find me.

At times, no matter how hard I try, I find myself tracing lines into the past, searching for a reason why I've ended up wandering inside these shoes. I toss and turn at night, flip my head to the foot of the bed and stare at a whole new patch of cieling, laying silent in the dark until sleep finally prickles my skin and I can dream. I change clothes, change the channel, go to work and back as fast as I can, read the paper and think semi-intellectually about current events, count change found in jeans I wore drinking, and so on and so on, until all these little events run together into one long week or month or year and I wake up not knowing what day it is. Everything looks the same, like a rerun played over until the tape warps and starts to buckle in on itself. Colours start bleeding together, the trees fade green to yellow to black, white noise swells and fills my ears until I think I'll choke. It's the boredom of itchy feet, the unbearable need to pull my limbs out of the cold, familiar ground and plant them somewhere foreign, assault my lungs with the smell of strangers, feast my eyes on everything before me. I would have no reason to look over my shoulder and toy with doubt and regret, no chance of retracing my path down streets stained with my footprints. The tricky part would be carrying the things I can't outrun: my heart, heavy with blood for warmth; and my brain, constantly hungry and contradictive. They aint goin' nowhere. So instead, I sort days into piles like coloured candy, pop one or two down until I'm a little closer to payday, then drive around with the windows down listening to Radiohead and trying to quiet my mind. Whatever it takes.