I needed time to think, time to bring myself from the place of irritation to anywhere else.
I hopped on Zook, and headed south. I stopped and fueled, grabbed a soda and a roll of my favorite chew, then headed to everyone's final destination.
Parking the bike next to an old distinguished gent, I greeted him, then proceeded to put in a fresh dip. He asked politely for a pinch, which I offered. He looked in the can and said he wouldn't want to run me low, and would do without. He asked why I was there, and I told him I was looking for answers. He said nothing, only smiled.
Leaving Zook behind, I started down a gravel path, and came face to face with a man I knew, but did not know. I touched his feet, and looked into his pained eyes, the crown of thorns and the vinegar in his mouth told a story millennia old. He told me to not look for the answers here, but to listen to what people had to say.
I continued on the gravel path, listening to children play, men and women talk in hushed tones, and few who did little more than scream in agony. I started asking my questions to anyone who would listen.
No answer came.
As the sun set, I headed back to Zook, and to the old man I had first met here. He asked if I found what I was looking for, to which I answered an honest no. He smiled a gentle and wise smile, and said "Son, the answer is already something you know, the question is what you don’t know."
Puzzled by this riddle, I thanked him and told him good-bye. He faded away as I put on my helmet and fired Zook up for the ride home.
I don't remember hearing my straight pipes, only the hushed whisper of the wind on the ride back.