Holy Day, mk. 1

I'm leading us on a legend-trip to that Spring-Picked bedroom we found in the wood two years ago. You're restless and spooked, riding in the passenger seat; knowing it's quicker if we use this transport but silently criticizing me for driving. When I drive, I assume this unnatural intensity and focus that makes it very difficult to be a passenger. It doesn't help that, for hours now, we've been seeing the same indicators along the road informing us that, while we're almost there, we're also (strangely) traveling on a circuit.

Once the hour passes midnight, the frustration becomes apparent and you ask me to stop. I do and just as you're about to take the reins and leave me in the wood, I remember that the only way to get to our bedroom is to walk. So we do, roughly at the same pace. Sometimes you lead, sometimes I do, and sometimes we hold hands and the landscape becomes more familiar. This is how we discover.