Somebody walks along with head turned round. Body moves ahead and struts forward. As the face keeps an inverted meandering look. Deep through the road traversed, a never-ending road, spelling d'erge of evened spurred. Words spill and time spilled. He knows that scores of years passed. He may come through this road once again. He will move through the streets. He left scores of years ago. Scores of years shimmered out of abulliant cauldron of life. He changed smack on shape of everything he had left. Scores of years ago. Vista unfolded endlessly, seemed pre-visited, but to fake and bone with obscure climpses. The same road delivered cluster of trees providing nook for the weary stragglers. The mock plump, revolt flowing in its tune, everything seemed to correspond with something that might have been there. Maybe that was there. So goes the road unrolling itself. And the trees, shrubbery dripping streams. The faces as come by seem familiar and provoked an instant. Hello, hello, hello, hello. Are you... For tip wrinkles cannot penetrate this come mild in scores of years. The road winds on. It's not fair.