The Pilgrimage of the Solo Traveler
“Shouganai,” Iriyama shakes his head. It can’t be helped.
Thunderheads tumble above the teahouse where we’re sitting. Around us the woods cower in pockets of shadows, a heavy calm that seems to invert silence. He wipes his bald head with a green towel around his neck. The straps on his black backpack are rubbed thin and frayed.
“I’m never satisfied staying in one place,” he says.