The road is living, cobbled from death, and animated. It has always been older than the oldest memory I have. It feeds on travelers, upon their confinement within the mazes of its form, and grows. Transit, and all of its vehicles, through all its mediums, is impossible to get a way away (heh) from. Motion is eternally a part not apart (heh) of everything I know. Moving is not an escape from the means of movement, as the trail is trailed behind the mover, such that the traveler betrails the trail. Eat the street.
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