Blinding light where his heart is...

He does not travel to go anywhere, but to simply go. He travels for travel's sake. To experience life and himself in it. The great affair is to move - to be in perpetual motion and discover places the past has shaped into the present. What instils a haunting dread in him is that feeling when he is driving away from people and they recede on the plain until even their specks disperse. In that moment the world shapes into its entire glory - vaulting and everlasting. But as he leans forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies, he realises, now more than ever, that he will never be content with a sedentary life, that he will always be chased by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere. So he writes; he travels; he becomes, until the end of his days.