Four million one hundred forty-seven thousand two hundred seconds ago,

and approximately fourty-one millions fifty-seven thousands two hundred eighty inches from home, my past self is shrouded in complete darkness, walking up Green Hill road and somewhat befuddled as to whether he has already walked past or not his intended destination. It is the first time he has found himself so deprived sensorially on a moonless night, surrounded by trees and with the only company of the wind. It is nor poetic nor scary, being unable to see one’s own feet, but he knows there is something at the end of his path.

Three hours prior to that, he is being dropped eight hundred thousand six hundred seventy-two centimeters (or five miles) away from his actual stop, by an obviously misguided bus driver, in the middle of the A2, direction Canterbury, no foothpath in sight nor alternatives to walking it. His pilgrimage is not exactly as he had inteded it to be, but he speculates that one must, at times, toil to make things worthwhile.

Regressing three further hours, he can be found on the white cliffs, a stark white monolith ending in the purest black, as if their creator had been a celestial printmaker. A sense of reassuring composure can be found there.

That moonless night after all was not so different compared to said person’s whereabouts approximately seven hundred twenty-five million seconds before (or about twenty-three years).


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