Scanty lights darkened his way. Yet he was hurrying for the heights. A hillside and a cold evening. All the necessary items were packed and he assured himself once again. This reassuring has become his nature for quite some time. As if entangled in remembering and forgetting, he led his eyes further down the hill. It was a place full of irregular shaped rocks and thick foliage in between.
Though his eyes reflected no haste, his companions were shouting at his trance like behavior. They were all ready to leave the place wretched by its pinning coldness. The noisy calls came to a halt. He took his pen and leaned towards the edge of the stand where he stood.
A hillside always evoked memories in him. Its call for the depths and widened eyes always created an enormous spirit in his inner cells. Devoid of its silence looming large, the range seemed to him a beautiful giant of grand old times. Cornered by the plain sampling of daily life, his nomadic illness left many scars unnoticed. When he talked at length of its scenic beauty, fellow travelers were annoyed by his comparisons. But he was unmoved. Ignoring the leftover ink drops on his hand, he stretched back and covered himself in the tightened warmness of the jacket. As wheels started rolling, one pinch of silence was left behind the moving carrier.
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