When I first wake up,  everything feels like the first crocus in spring poking its leaves out of the snow. The air is cold, but with a quickening freshness to it and I can feel a gentle spring sun on my face. Blues and golds are vivid in the sky; moss is alive on the rocks.  As yet, there are no weathered orange crates or broken factory windows in this world- it is a simple planet of friendly neighbors, setting out freshly baked pies on their window sills to cool. I can trust in this world- trust that the road will unwind itself gently in front of me.

I can wander everywhere in this world and never come to anything that calls itself a country. There are no borders, no passports- there is only the next thunderstorm around the next bend- only the sound of a waterfall somewhere off  the path on my right.

Sometime before sunset I will find a place off the path to settle down for the night.  I will weave myself a safe nest of leaves and branches, seek among the wild roots and plants for my supper. And afterwards I will go to sleep,  with the sound of the stars singing in my ears.