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The sun rose at the end of a valley of ruined scyscrapers. In that part of the city the water reached the third floor of the surrounding buildings. A lone figure stood on a makeshift raft drifting along the golden path of solar reflection. Although going with the flow he used a staff as an oar. He was thinking.
"My wandering soul finds solace in a renewed connection with the source, though I, heart-troubled through ocean roads, long row the rime-cold sea, I tread the path of an exile."
Images of nuclear explosions flash accross his mind.
"Events always go as they must!"
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