The road is the same every evening. Lamps in their usual order, wet stones after rain, the smell of bread from the bakery on the corner where the old man sweeps the entrance before closing. After enough times something gives in. The body keeps walking and the head stops asking where to. No rush left in the lungs. Nothing worth answering on the phone tonight. Nobody to remember by name. Just steps, and the soft idea that nothing important is going to happen, and that this is the best news a tired body can possibly receive after a long week.