Roads That Lead Nowhere It isn’t the stillness they talk about, the way the light spills over old barns, or the dirt road that winds like a vein, pulsing beneath the feet of those who never left. It’s the quiet rush of small rebellions, how we find freedom in cracked pavement, how the wind pulls at our collars like mothers calling us back before dark. The fields don’t whisper—they bellow in silence, an endless hum of being. We know the...
