There are pathways I haven’t taken in years, yet I remember them instinctively. Their secret ways are a second breath to me. Whenever the sun comes out and I feel inclined to rise, they come to life, and without even trying, I’m no longer just another man but a phantom who rides the crest of the wave. The leaves camouflage the outline of my body. My body is not mine. It belongs to the trees and to the animals who watch unseen as I pass by as I so often do. The leaves are the colour of my soul. Their veins mirroring mine like an endless row of white lines. If I hold my breath, miles become atoms, and the distance that usually separates me from what I desire is as defunct as the volcanoes on Mars. Nobody knows where I am, which is just how I like it. Come find me, but don’t. Draw images in the sand. Plant a flag and pretend you conquered what you’ll never understand. On my lips, tomorrow glistens in the glare of the sun, and as I lick it with my tongue, I taste the paths I have walked and all those that have yet to come.