Call me Parsnip. When, on these cold April mornings dreary and drab, whilst the grey clouds hold silent dominion over the great metropolis, murmurs of spring are far between and few; when the rain follows me out my Brooklyn door and the very lengths of my determined course are riddled with chill puddles and dysfunctional mass transit; when the gentle shores of mighty taiseiyou stir in my breast only quiet exhaustion; then I know it is time to traverse the mighty plain, and begin anew.
The trees of the western shore hearken to me. I can smell the pine needles, I can hear the lazy buzz of chainsaws in the distance, interrupted now and again by a panicked train whistle. The asphalt glowers back at me, I can feel it's heat in my shoes, the sweat on my neck and in my shirt. I will love it only when I have eluded it, am sitting quiet and contemplative 'neath the shade of a coffee shop awning, watching the cars and people blend past me.
In every man there is a love for the calm and peaceful idle of nature-come-solitude.
