The urge to stop was very powerful in him today.
Not to stop anywhere, in particular, just to cease walking, to settle, in one place, to let himself take root again, and see if he could grow.
He wondered if he could capture again the habits of humanity -- talk, laughter, idleness, physical contact.
He would like, he thought, to get into a warm, soft bed with clean sheets, crisp and smooth against his skin. He would like to lie there, and watch as a woman came towards him, naked and with a smile on her face, ready to slip into his arms and and his life. He could picture her clearly, this woman -- a little heavy, no longer young, nobody beautiful, or clever, or special. Nobody like that blonde girl who had run beside him a ways back, then peeled off into some quest of her own. Nobody who would just up and leave him.
But someone else to take control, to direct him, to care if he was there or not at the end of the day. Maybe even to love him...
He shook his head. Dreams he thought. My reality isn't like that, never was, and never will be.
He walked on.