In the one spot where all roads meet he is bound. He sees that there are more points to the compass than the heavens can hold. Curved behind his back, the universe encloses him. All roads dissolve into the dusk. He has deep Mongolian eyes that stay open as long as sight remains. He sees the light broken into small fragments before his very eyes, shattered into a thousand colours that can never reassemble. All our desires converge in him, our longing to find the way, the one way. He can hear our questions, but he cannot answer. He stammers and falls silent. Under a coffe-brown sky he has lost his sense of time and direction, in the dwindling windless light. Above him there is a clashing of clouds, the rain soaks him and his feet are cold. He pases, without direction, waiting to be replaced. He is dreaming of a long holiday, a heavenly break, he would prefer to leave all responsibility to a senior official in a grey suit. He dreams of cycling off on an upright placid bicycle of unknown make, cycling into green roadless woods and disappearing.