I left home, with the barebone things I need. This act of foolishness might topple anything I've ever done.

But I am not willing to see my author crumble, bleeding red tears from the sky. I have a feeling my words reached him somehow. This is the result.

It's my duty to see this through. Or one of the only ones. But that doesn't matter. Staying in my old life, repeating the days ad infinitum would only waste time.

There is no way but forward. I know in the short time that I am away, I will fall destitute. Perhaps even unable to return to the life I currently have.

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It matters little. There are only two things which can happen. I die, or I find a way to him.

I just have to keep marching on. Until my bones grind to dust.

In the city, I am lost. Each corner more unfamiliar than the last.

I look at the places around me, and knowingly feel the stark unfamiliarity. The desire to have some safe area, where I know where things are, and to be able to move forward instead of aimlessly is extreme.

Almost enough to dissuade me from my act of insanity. Almost.

I have taken a short break to stock up on papers, and have acquired waterproof sleeves for them, in the case that it rains again.

I should honestly return home, walking only occasionally into the city to seek the signs I'm looking for.

My hesitation catches me again. I put all the faith I have in my writing.

Hoping that what I write might be able to reach them. It probably has. But it is unclear. I know what kind of person the Rainman is, but that's rather shallow.

Should I stay in the city, or should I stay at home, decaying?