I am part of the ancient tradition of going away. The art of leaving everything behind. I set fire to my maps years ago when I saw through all their lies. I know north by the smell of buffalo. And south by its tangerines. I am like a slow river. With feet. Pigeons are of interest to me. And violins hurled from attics. Sometimes I become Jack from Boise. Or Arthur from Arkansas. I sleep where I sleep. Eat what I can. I carry a feather in my pocket. But can’t remember why. If you need to get in touch with me, open your window and shout. I’ll tell you a secret about my kind…It starts when you set out on a pilgrimage. Then someone keeps moving the shrine.