Slowly my Pink hobnailed boots and myself are talking, no perhaps whispering to each other that we will both be soon away amongst the monsoons of the Far East. Back Home amongst lost dreams, question marks in finger footsteps. My Pink hobnailed boots has also talked in even more whispers that this the last trip for them, that would i kindly leave them behind under some bush in some park amongst the warmth as a final resting point. Instead of some dump truck, perhaps i will head their demand for i would not like myself to be thrown in some dump truck either when the grim reaper gives me the nod,that indeed it is time to go. After all they have tramped across a tiny smattering of the world most of which has been in warmer climes....so goeth.