All roads lead to somewhere, but where are you?
A desert? Maybe out west?
That's the best you can do.
The skies and the shadows are no help—it’s probably daytime, but you can’t be sure because the sun isn't the only light above you. It's not even the brightest light, if the one you take for the sun is, in fact, the sun. It hardly matters if it is, though, because there's no navigating by it, or by any of the maybe-suns overhead. The paths the strange orbs trace in the sky as they fold in upon themselves endlessly, hypnotically, are not "east to west," but something stranger.
You wander, keeping near the road. That can’t be helped—wherever you turn, there it is. Something tells you that the road is as new to this place as you are, or even newer. You imagine it is continuously creating itself in the direction you’re wandering, always just beyond the horizon line...
