There are always old roads on mountains that are a spiraling shelf for man to crawl...
The new ones, they don't flow so easily with the land. They have bartered more fiercely with the rolls and hills; they demand more, cutting in deep to "save our time". Why? Time is such a basic, restraining concept.
These old ones, the roads with the tattered edges, wine-like ages and as many tales as they are long; they are different. They are diplomatic and modest, taking only what they need and never more. They dip and glide, flourish and spin. They dance with the land.
