For the first time in fifteen years I looked up from my road to see the sky. Presumably every possible sky had been above my head during my pilgrimage. I had only seen what fell from above, food from hands, the divots made by countless feet. For fifteen years I had walked without stopping or looking up. I slept carried by the arms of my fellow pilgrims, as I carried them when they slept. Everything I knew was motion and road. I looked up for the first time in this life and I saw the object of my affection, my destination, my nemesis. The Shining City.
The city is tethered to the earth with ropes woven from the hair of the faithful. When I arrive they will shear my head. My body has made this offering. Four feet of keratin weight will be cut so that I can rise up with the city. When I arrive I will be freed to float into the sky — into the Shining City. One head closer to release. One head closer to perfection.