He keeps pushing a broken wheelbarrow piled with regret up an unforgiving mountain past roadside shrines whose deities have gone on vacation.
He longs to return home but there is no going back. He can no longer get there from here. The more distance he covers the further away he is from his desired destination.
Kafka understood. He abandoned pages spilled from his notebook marking a trail but warning others not to follow.
The dead are quiet now. At peace with a knowledge they did not seek.
The price of admission was everything he owned. All his needs, desires traded for nothing traded for everything but what he really wanted.