Someday I might just pack my bag and leave everything behind, my clothes, my car, the money, flying to the furthest place I can afford to fly to, roaming the streets looking for job and waiting tables by night, buying cigarettes by the stick and savouring every little bit of it.

What could I do then, if I felt these forlorn feelings once more and wished to pen them down somewhere? Or would I be too busy trying to get by, trying to catch a breath, or two?

Some day.