.028

Today, I attempted to run away.
There was no wind to be felt as I walked: no cars were on the road driving past to produce any.
The long stretch of sidewalk I faced was empty, and the vacant, unkempt stores on either side of it contained no indication of recent life. Even the cracks in the concrete had no weeds sprouting forth from beneath them; they all had died long ago.

The air was hot and the world could be seen, but it made no sense, as the gray skies above revealed no sun.

I ambled onwards; my eyes would never stray from the path ahead, but would instead strain to see if the end of the road and the beginning of one new was near. I continued like this for hours; my breathing had become labored in the heat and sweat would trickle from my brow down the contours of my face when the beads got too big. Eventually, the last of the stores had been passed, and the markers on my left and my right had ceased to demand that those who walked forward turn back. I ignored the gradual barrenness as I progressed, and still the sidewalk continued on.

I never did reach the end of the path, though.
Instead, after my hundredth mile, I found myself at a crosswalk. At the other end of the crosswalk was a broken traffic light, from the pole of which hung, directly eye-level across from me, a small black box that illuminated the palm and outline of a five-fingered orange hand.

The light of the "Do Not Walk" sign never changed.
Still I'm there, waiting.