As I swallowed my food the vision of life
as a road ―― a winding , endless road that
knows not where it goes and what its load
―― came back to me.
Here was an alternative I had not thought
of to the deadening routine of a workingman's
life in the city.
I must get out on the road which winds
from town to town. Each town would be strange
and new ; each town would proclaim itself
the best and bid me take my chance. I would
take them all and never repent.
I did not commit suicide, but on that Sunday
a working-man died and a tramp was born.
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