Write four lines of prose about: the end of the road.
Last shift at the bakery tomorrow. Feels strange. I had my first non-training shift at the bakery a year ago today.
It's been quite the ride.
Not much left at closing today, just a couple ciabatta loaves for the freezer and the rest is stuff we should be able to sell tomorrow. Should be a good one.
It's a strange, lonely, confounding place. Intimidating, perhaps, on occasion. The way forward is a wild landscape of trees and bushes and quicksand with no clear path through it.
Of course, if one were to simply turn around, the way back would reach for the horizon with an unobstructed, smooth, paved hand, transforming an ending into a beginning...