I've stamped the roads with my footprints. An yearbook. I write little notes and stick them on roadside stands, with a polaroid or two. My yearbook is the journey, each new year brings a new unknown destination. I start to scribble. Long strides, short steps, a slow jump, years pass by. Some years grow old upon the strewn path, some are made afresh with grit and clay. Some years cough and die, some are reincarnated. My yearbook fills to the brim and my footprints vanish, leaving empty potholes for someone else to fill.
A decade recycles itself, for fresh years to stock.
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