He went, ever on the move, with the slow, shuffling step of wandering beggars who are nowhere at home.

Not a living thing was to be seen and the cottages that sat huddled close to the ground remained fast shut; the smoke from the chimneys alone still gave a sign of life.

That’s the place to get to—nowhere. One wants to wander away from the world’s somewheres, into our own nowhere.

Blues ain't never going anywhere. It can get slow, but it ain't going nowhere.

I once visited a village of primitive people.
At village, I felt time and life moved slower.

Let thy step be slow and steady, that thou stumble not.