He ambled up the street, peering in shop windows and wondering at the people with hands shoved in coat pockets rushing from place to place, disappearing, reappearing as others doing the same, going somewhere he wasn’t. They walked in long, fast steps, covering as much ground as possible without running or looking desperate to be anywhere but going. He wandered, slowly, feet never going too far in front of himself, propelling him just enough to change the scenery. He wasn’t going anywhere, had no where to be but with himself doing nothing. He’d lost his purpose somewhere, and didn’t remember where it had gone to. He walked from one end of town to the other for no other reason than it kept him warm and passed the time while he looked for his purpose. He was the King of Mosey and wandered until he wandered clean out of sight.