A semi-regular stranger that visits late in the evening. Miles of broken white lines and anonymous headlights punctuate. Eighty or one hundred or a thousand. The number is irrelevant. Broken. Busted. Heartbroken. Abandoned. Worthless. Empty. Forgive. Move forward. There is no backwards. There is nothing to go back to. The past is passed. One room on a merry go round. Each week is a mirror of the previous and a cookie cutter for the future. Spinning. Passing the same rock underwater and believing every time that it is new. Keep walking. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Never stop.