I walk the straight and narrow.
Actually, it’s quite wiggly this line I’m following.
It’s not a new sidewalk, but not the worst I’ve seen; and it’s downhill.
But it isn’t easy.
And it’s not a path; how unhelpfully undescriptive. A path is in a wood, or up a mountain, or near a sea. It’s not where I am.
I trade the buried pipe, or wire, or manic thought, for a white painted line. Maybe I shouldn’t walk so close to a boundary.
Cars speed past.
Bicycles speed past.
I’m in the slowest lane.
The crisp air feels nice, and the dusk is so beautiful, but I wonder how long it will take me to reach my destination.
It’s all downhill from here.