paths in a city park, well worn from dog walkers, from people short cutting through the park from lunch to work to home to dinner to places, from lovers holding hands, from families walking to an open space for a picnic, but those paths, well worn, established, the act of walking those paths, of getting from one place to another, of movement, of travelling, of having a direction, a purpose. and then there are the park benches. and the people who sit, the homeless with no where else to go, sleeping under newspapers, the elderly feeding the birds with day old bread, and the tired, and the weary, and those that watch the walkers, that watch the paths. maybe they walked those paths, and hoped to walk those paths long before, and find it amusing to see familiar faces walking those paths, whilst wearing away the pine from the bench. *sigh*. always end up in the strangest places, and sometimes the furthest ends from the means and way.