Hikes arranged to be disarranged.
He plans not to plan,
Or organise his
disorder.
His nose is followed over fells
And through woods.
Uncertainty
and mystery -
Not a route plotted to
infinity.
No map dare tell him
where to go,
Or which place to
avoid.
He goes where he goes -
and nowhere else.
He knows where he's
arrived... when he's arrived.
When something
is seen the distance,
He rarely knows what
it's called,
Or who died there in
1523.
He doesn't care about the
hills' contours,
Or the linear momentum
of his bootsteps.
He likes not knowing
where the fuck he is,
Or where the next
village can be found.
This unknowingness is
the point
Of his lack of purpose.
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