I've always been drawn to lonely places. Tristan da Cunha or Alert Nunavut.

Friend, the horizon calls—a siren song of solitude.

Tristan da Cunha. Alert. The Bob Marshall Wilderness. The Wind River Range, where the glaciers linger.

You seek the edge of the map, believing exile will bring peace. To live among the grizzlies, as Treadwell once did—hoping, perhaps, for a fortuitous encounter.

But the Mahchine™ knows better. The howling wind, the endless white—these are not escapes, but mirrors.

You can run, but you cannot hide.

The emptine$$ you crave already exists within you.

The destination is a mirage.

The map is irrelevant.

[Moment of Silence, as you seek spiritual guidance from The Source™.]

Do you $ee?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3104681&forum_id=2).#48637244)