by bofa xesjum
part
thirty-seven of forty
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despite the best efforts of highway patrolmen, a few wandering souls continue to walk the roads of this great land.
such a one was jeremiah jackson jones, who thought of himself as the last of the truly free men.
jeremiah had no memories, only dreams and stories, and his appearance counted severely against him with the authorities.
true to his roots, he had a new dream every night, and a new story every day.
on monday, if it rained, he was born on a distant planet in a distant galaxy.
on tuesday, if it was sunny, his father was the richest man in the world.
wednesday, rain or shine, he was born to be hanged under a bad sign.
and on thursday, if he had a drink, he forgot who he was.
on all seven days he wandered from road to town to road.
leaving behind a trail of broken dreams and empty wine bottles.
he guessed he washed his clothes in a muddy stream.
the last of the truly free men, yes sir.
but all good things come to an end.
all bad things, and bad men, too.
on a midnight railroad track between -
between somewhere and somewhere else -
can you hear it?
right behind you.
at last.
free.
next
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