Back To Sido's House

  I have never felt this kind of sad before. A long stretch of land, rolling far off where I can’t see its edge, as though it is hiding something from me.
  The sky seems low, a muffled blue, the kind that looks like it was cooked in a pressure pot. Now, near the end of the day, the stretch of land beneath it looks baked and crusty, like the surface of a golden loaf of bread.
  We travel in a straight line, the perfect example of constancy. Nothing mars the road but the invisibility of the horizon.
I’m on my way back to Sido’s house, back to remembrance. It is time to face the grey vacuum that he innocently and sweetly left behind.