37) Morning....North. My imperative. My command. I think of nothing other. Dr. Creep has given me the key to my coherence, my order. It must be that there exists in the North some great destiny, a resolution to my plagued condition. I can hardly wait for the moment when the plants and animals sing or sigh to me, when the wind and rain yield to clear paths, and when the sky full of stars bends down close enough to kiss, if that is what can happen. I need peace. It will be mine. In good time. The ever precise Doctor intends to lift a veil. But his ways are obscure, elliptical. Hence, I need to look more closely over the contents of my backpack. Specifically, I recall pamphlets to museums and geographical destinations in the North. Perhaps among them is a description of my rest.

The rain is pouring. I abandon the stodgy vehicle. Float it away, please. The earth is awash. My coat is permeable. Soon I am ankle-deep in mud, and wet. Constricted. Discomfort narrows the mind. I cannot see more than ten feet ahead. The noise of the downpour is deafening. I follow the road. No vehicles pass. Only the most vigorous wild things could enjoy this. I am bent by the force of the rain. My gut-shot bandages are soaked. Could It be cleansing? This one hopes.
The wind rids me of the stench of my being. The sun peels away layers of conflict. Rain is a general wash. The elements work me as they would a pebble. The rough rock is eroded to a smooth paving stone.
North.