I half-grin, and start walking again, fingers unconsciously miming Guitar Hero buttons. There's a pause, and then an unmistakable guitarline snakes out into the cold, quiet air. Why do I do it? Shouldn't the journey be as important as the destination? A light flicks on in a house just ahead of me. There's probably another ten or fifteen minutes to go when I grind to a sudden halt, and sigh. It's cold, it's dark, I'm tired and I'm bored. ![]() ![]() ![]() It's a forty minute journey, most of it steeply uphill. A chilly November evening, and I'm walking home from town.
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