[ WP ] Since birth , you have always had a bad sense of direction that would defy the laws of logic and space . Instead of arriving at your destination , you would end up in places or areas impossible for normal people to get to .

I turned the corner of my road, slipping in the snow and suddenly feeling the effects of the low-oxygen atmosphere at the top of Everest. 
 
 `` Not again''. 
 
 My boss was n't too happy when I called, I guess I'll need a new job now as well. It's frightfully cold up here, so I'm going to climb further up, that'll surely get me to the base camp. 
 
 The beach was nicer than the mountain at least, though I'm not sure when one became the other. The sand is warm, I've taken off my shoes and can feel it between my toes. I should find a telephone. I can see houses in the distance, but I have a good feeling about the other direction. I walked further along the beach, luckily I can see people. They're really big, all muscled and angry looking. It must be because of their physical work, they're all loading heavy bags of white powder into a boat. I waved hello and wandered down to see if I could help. 
 
 I never made it there, down one dune, up another and there was the desert stretched out in front. That was a shame, those guys might have helped me. A soft idea started to bloom in my head. Like a bud bursting into shape, petals splayed out like the flower I saw last time I tried to go get my haircut. No giant wasps though, not this time; not in my head. 
 
 I walked in the direction I thought was away from home, walking for hours until I'd built up quite a thirst. I stopped at one of the market stalls on the side of the busy road, bartering for a fruit juice. I wandered some more, through the dusty pyramids, empty damp temples and once through a round office with lots of shouting men. I'd almost given up on my plan when I'd finally returned home. 
 
 I opened the front door, feeling the carpet beneath my toes with a simple joy. Maybe my next job should n't be so restrictive. Maybe a roving travel writer. I settled down into my chair waiting for the bit I liked least. The glowing cube floating down from its place on the shelf, the same creepy motion it's made since I could remember. The surface touching my forehead, connecting to my mind. The same bearded man trying to tell me something, his neck emblazoned with the same snake tattoo that rested on my ankle. I shut my eyes, humming and trying to tune him out. The words slipping through the cracks in my psyche in drips and drabs; `` Remember... You are... The Corsair... Wake up! ``.
