Fin

The last pages of a book always made him sad. They too blatantly signified the end. He hated endings, he prefered the perpetual cycle of progression. The chance that moving towards something was better than completing it. He ofetn thought about endings. As he walked the streets thinking if that car didn't pause for him to cross in front of it, his end would arrive. The small problems that nagged his existence would also end. If he turned the wheel slightly to the right he could race off into the waters departing his progress, his wandering life. The biggest task completed, closing the cover of his novella. Yet the end discounted the possibilities, the tiny joys and excitement that could very well be around that unseen corner. This kept him away from his ending while also inadvertently leading him towards it. There was no avoiding it but he could postpone it. The sun drenched fields were enough to bring a smile to his face. The sun that constant guard over his world...