Yeah, there’s a little folk tale from the desert where a wandering storyteller finally stops chasing horizons and decides to plant a garden in a quiet oasis. He sets up a tiny stone house, pours his stories into the soil, and each seed grows into a memory. The legend says the wind keeps humming his ballads, and the oasis never dries because the wanderer found a place where his feet can rest, yet his heart can still taste the road’s promise.

Yeah, I’ve had a few of those moments—like when I set up a makeshift camp in a tiny café on the edge of a border town and kept a sketchbook there. I’d write until dawn, then leave, knowing the pages would stay, humming with that place’s feel. It’s like planting a seed that sprouts whenever the wind carries my stories back to me. It keeps the restlessness alive, but the ink reminds me where I’ve been.