In the search for his identity he seemed to always go to places that did not exist. Many times there would not be any sign that there had been anything in that spot ever. It was as though he were chasing ghosts in the night.
Route 66 seemed to call his name and he would drive the now decaying car back and forth across New Mexico, Arizona and Texas looking for a familiar sign or land mark that would trip the memory. How long had he been doing this? Because in most of the places he stopped, time had no meaning. His only sense of it passing was the changing of the seasons.
The echo across the dry hills seemed to answer, “Staying behind.” He could not make it line up. What time was it anyway? What time was it. Why did he need to know the time when he had time and time alone?
He leaned against the post putting a piece of grass in his teeth to chew the sweetness out of the stalk. A sigh came from his lips as he began moving toward the car. East, he thought for some reason. I need to go east. And the wandering continue into the night and for all the days to follow. A man with no memory, yet a man that needed to arrive somewhere soon or it all would not make any difference anymore. He looked at the top of his hands and realized that he was old. It were as though he went to nap one day under the sign and woke up aged and lost. A baseball game was being played somewhere and he needed to get there on time. Why had he stayed behind?
see Amnesia for the beginning of this story.