When you walk to the turning you are heavy and tired. Your last backpack thrown somewhere you don't care to remember. But the turning is no longer turning. It's a straight path —grey and empty. You see another backpack; grey and empty.

So you walk and put things in your new backpack, soft-cotton candy-things, hard-pebble-things. Grey turns white and white turns pink, pockets appear, and zips stop working. But the next turn isn't there yet, so you keep walking till straight becomes turning, and turning becomes straight.

One day you'll find a shortcut, and you'll no longer use your backpack. Soft-cotton candy-things and hard-pebble things disappear, you have nowhere to store them, you'll forget your way —you must; so that you can return to the turning, heavy and tired; so that you can say; ah, what a year, glad I'm done with it . . . and pick yet another backpack.

(Happy new year, phew.)