Temendia absorbs me. No there. No here. No then. And, as a result, no real sense of now. I arrive, take care of things as best I can, try to retrieve and sustain for a few moments an echo of the past, and then leave. But I do not leave, for there is no there to leave. Leaving implies the possibility of return, but here is only recurrence without return. I have left the path without wandering from it. I continue on it, but without a destination. I can no longer imagine the course of this journey. Only now do I realize I am missing a shoe.