...who can say where a voyage starts - not the the actual passage but the dream of a journey and its urge to find a way?

Instead of insight, maybe all a man gets is strength to wander for a while.

Beware thoughts that come in the night. They aren't turned properly; they come in askew, free of sense and restriction, deriving from the most remote of sources.

The open road is a beckoning, a strangeness, a place where a man can lose himself.

Our religion keeps reminding us that we aren't just will and thoughts. We're also sand and wind and thunder. Rain. The seasons. All those things. You learn to respect everything because you are everything. If you respect yourself, you respect all things.

Other than to amuse himself, why should a man pretend to know where he's going or understand what he sees?

With a nearly desperate sense of isolation and a growing suspicion that I lived in an alien land, I took to the road in search of places where change did not mean ruin and where time and men and deeds connected.