It's alone in this space, this walk-induced hypnosis, that the mind is finally able to receive the strange gifts and charities of the world.
So pilgrims were chosen by local lottery.
But I'm beginning to think the answer is pretty simple: People care, and are cared for, on a level of abstraction absent from our town.
Something lucid and buoyant.
And then: an explosion of pain lighting up the whole trailer park.
The great amusement was showing it off, the splinted digit.
I stroll picturesque stream-flanked ippon-uras and watch kids walk before me in zigzaggy lines and think about how adults are so point-to-point specific, but these children try their hardest to stretch out their walks home, ducking into little nooks in the entryways of houses and behind stone walls, poking one another, tugging on tree branches, howling and squawking with those little leather Dutch backpacks bopping behind, trusted to get home and trusted not to be messed with by anyone along the way.