And then suddenly I start thinking about a new topic for writing a Prose. Roads. These rough roads. Yes, I’m in love with these roads. The roads I’m walking on, the roads I’m traveling on. The roads I see from my car and roads I feel. With every passing movement of my bare feet and the wheels of my car, I feel another me. I look down at the road. I’m bare feet. I peep outside my car’s glass and I feel relieved. Relieved from the world. I feel the air brushing my face, brushing my body. With every passing second I feel the roughness I’m walking on. The only way to survive, to feel life. I see your beaming face, grin like a Cheshire cat. You’re beauty, you’re life. And life’s a propossessing thing, as pretty as a picture. I have a million reasons to live, and you had a zillion to leave me. My audio jack’s plugged and I don’t really care about the world giving a voice. I need not to sound wild and remind them about my existence. I’m happy, happier than I once was. Happier than I ever will be. And happier I could ever think I would be. Life’s a frisky play. Play it aptly.