At the MoorWanderer in the black wind; quietly the dry reeds whisperIn the stillness of the moor. In the gray skyA flock of wild birds follows;Slanting over gloomy waters.Turmoil. In decayed hutThe spirit of putrescence...

Men are by nature wanderers…Every people has moved from somewhere, and had to learn the ways of the land from the people who were there before.

Surely there were others like me, born without an inkling of direction. The wanderers, the amblers, the dabblers, united by our purposeless mantra-I have no idea what to do with my life.

I was forced to wander, having no one, forced by my nature to keep wandering because wandering was the only thing that I believed in, and the only thing that believed in me.

We’re all blurry-eyed wanderers of time, and the unfortunance of it all is that we’d probably all go on to do great things if only we searched for what corrected and focused our vision instead...