Normally, I would keep riding in the storm, in the world, nobody is there, it is filled with people, who are not aware of me. So they are of no threat to me. But I can’t approach anyone, as they are in their own, too busy, for me to disturb them in anyway. Just my dad. I keep calling him on the phone. He gives me the same NATO chatter, sounds like a modem, clicking, rotating, then, hitting on the drum like a printer, like in the old days. I never really understood what he ever said, though, but it felt so great, like home, a machine that keeps me safe here. After the computers got commercialized, and the laptops cellphones then smartphones appeared in the market, that chatter of that old machine, became more and more exclusive. I would therefore call home often, to get some of that Wes. The real West however is much more different, it kills actually, nothing more. It is just volumes and volumes of low confidence then death in some non-sense way, like I’m no good, nothing. Before you enter the real West, a team of people called Sir ke Log, meet me, otherwise I was just a loner. How did I learn anything in life, if not them, Then they go away and turns up the West that just starts killing me. It Kills. So I have to evade them all the time, never meet anyone, and never talk to anyone. Just ride in the highway, like no destination, off the grid.