Disclaimer: Don't own them, wish I did.
A/N: Imagine Bob Fraser reading this.
Home
You hear the winter wind come down from the north, hear it whistle through the pines and that one chink in the chimney that you never could stop up all the way. The lake gets colder and the ice gets thicker until one day you can walk on it. The summer birds have all left and the smell of snow is in the air. And just when you start to take it all in, the sharpness of the blue sky, the wide expanse of space. You wake up, and then it hits you. You don't know what you're doing, where you are, WHO you are. You're surrounded by four walls in a sleeping bag on a floor and the flicker of the dimming kerosene lamp is a fading reminder of a bonfire meant to warm the bones. As if you'd need it here, where the air is foul and the noise never stops because the city never sleeps. And then it occurs to you, you don't know why you left. There must have been a reason but you can't quite grasp it. And whatever it was, it has no meaning anymore. And you gasp as if for breath, but it's really that second chance at life you're looking for. A place of wild where every step could be your last and there's no one around for miles. Where you shoot to eat and not in violence, where every thing is hard-earned and just as easily lost. Up there. Up north.