[Intro — single acoustic guitar, steady fingerpick, the rhythm of hooves implied beneath] [Verse 1 — dry, observational, the field notes voice] The road from Lumen runs northeast. I've walked it seven times or more. The seventh time I counted new things that weren't there the time before. Three nest sites in the eastern hollow, a burrow under the old stone bridge, something with too many legs entirely living on the windward ridge. I made a note. I always make a note. A man who keeps good records never has to grieve what's lost — he just catalogs the difference and continues at his pace. The road has changed considerably. The world has changed considerably. I note the time, the date, the place. [Verse 2 — still dry, but something underneath it now] The Portal lit the sky five years back. I watched it from the Lumen wall. I wrote down what the light looked like — the color, the duration, the fall. I wrote down what the people said. I wrote down what the scholars guessed. I didn't write what I was thinking. Some things don't survive the test of being made into a sentence. Some things read too strange in ink. I wrote the facts. I keep the facts. The facts don't ask me what I think. [Chorus — the refrain, almost wry, almost not] The road goes on. The notes get made. The world is strange and getting stranger. The work is good. The pay is fair. And I have never been in danger of running short of things to document — new creatures, new routes, new terrain. I have never been in danger of running out of road. [Verse 3 — the armor slips, still framed as observation] Sirinius is gone. I knew a man who'd been there once. He said the temple bells were something — rang the quarter hour and the months. There are no bells there now. There's nothing there now. I wrote a note about the silence. I wrote that it was notable. I didn't write the other thing. The old route south through the Sirinius pass runs empty now and slightly wrong. I've taken it three times since. The emptiness is very long. I make good time. There's nothing to slow a man when there is nothing left to see. I noted that the road was clear. I noted the efficiency. [Chorus] The road goes on. The notes get made. The world is strange and getting stranger. The work is good. The pay is fair. And I have never been in danger of running short of things to document — new creatures, new routes, new terrain. I have never been in danger of running out of road. [Bridge — the honest moment, quieter, single guitar only, each line landing with space] [He would not say any of this to anyone] There are things that don't go in the journal. The way a storm smells before it breaks. The specific quality of quiet at the fourth hour before daybreak. The warmth of something breathing nearby. The rhythm underneath that isn't mine. The fact that I sleep better in the open than in any town I've left behind. The fact that I don't mind this. The fact that I've stopped minding. The fact that minding never helped. I'll write it down as weather data. Clear skies, steady wind, no rain. Good visibility. Good conditions. Good progress made again. [Final chorus — forward-facing, the wry and the real sitting together] [Each line quieter than the last on the closing three] The road goes on. The notes get made. The world is strange and I am in it. The work is good. The pay is fair. I've made my peace, or near enough to it. I have things to document — new creatures, new routes, new terrain. I have a road in front of me. That's enough. It's mostly enough. It's enough. [Outro — guitar slows slightly, the hoofbeats implied beneath, fading] Northeast from Lumen. Clear conditions. Notable findings logged by hand. Continuing as planned.
