As she walked, she heard footsteps, sounds of a man walking, a journeyman, singing, unintelligible tunes, passing time from midnight to one. And so life quickly went rosdside, quietly she hid, like a spy, she went into the cornfields.
Curious like a child, life observed the journeyman quietly: how we walked, his facial expressions, who he is on his own, that moment.
The nearby towns lights illuminated the sky, projecting upward, like a mushroom, lifting, it's intensity diming into vast black air, circular with no epicentre. It was not pitch black.
As the journeyman passed her, life quietly walked alongside mirroring his steps in the shadows of the cornfield. Like wind, she caressed leaves, touched the corn, pushed the stems aside. She did this for mile and then she grew impatient and suddenly spoke.
"Journeyman," she said, "tell me what consumes you and has you so deep in thought?"
Surprised, he replied, "who's out there?"
She said, "reply, reply to me at once!"
And he said, "I'm recounting. I'm planning my wandering, questioning past and looking at future. What is this to you? Now you answer me! Who's out there? Speak at once"
And she replied "its life"'
He said "precisely!", launched and started walking away.
She warned him: "Journeyman, wait not for a scare, wait not for sign to make your journey Yours... Now you shall continue."
And he did. Back he went to cutlery. Back to a sofa. Back to lying naked, with open windows, looking at the sky turning blue, and then grey. Grabbing the sounds of his street, alone, recounting, he persisted, in the warm year, returning the favour of the day.
Finally, a night again, life found him. And killed him. "You had your chance, you understood, ever since the cornfields."
This was the worst scare of them all. It all ended. He was aware all along.
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