The road is living, cobbled from death, and animated. It has always been older than the oldest memory I have. It feeds on travelers, upon their confinement within the mazes of its form, and grows. Transit, and all of its vehicles, through all its mediums, is impossible to get a way away (heh) from. Motion is eternally a part not apart (heh) of everything I know. Moving is not an escape from the means of movement, as the trail is trailed behind the mover, such that the traveler betrails the trail. Eat the street.
The Inescapability of Escape
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