The gravel crunched beneath his ‘87 black converse sneakers as he paced himself parallel to the train tracks on the bitter day in early April. His arms flew out as graceful as a birds wing as he leaned to balance his trail, halting every few feet to gather his sense. Sweat glistened on his forehead as he took in a deep breath, the cold attacking his lungs, blades in his insides that sent a immoral chill through his body. His lips felt parched and he licked them quickly, arms flattening slowly to his sides again as the trains whistle ran piercingly clear in the distance in front of him. Pretty blue eyes peered up through wisps of blonde hair, eyebrows arched over the splendid handsome features of the 27 year old boy. The acrid levanter bit at his cheeks and his nose, turning them a subtle blushing color of ripe primrose. His chest heaved as he fell off of the tracks and scattered into the ditch of grit as the train approached with devil speeds in the void. His back ached from the impact of the coarsen ground and his breath had lost short for seconds on time as he gathered his will. Rolling over he thrusted up from the terrain, small stones penetrating his flesh and he brushed them from the palms of his hands, shoving them deep in his pockets and ambled forward, the gray sky’s above darkening his gaze. Jaw clenched his head snapped to the right in time to spy the train move past him and rush with churning engines away into the gap of the woods, trees swaying eerily in the breeze behind him, taunting his eagerness to run, pump every last bit of energy to escape their nightmare. With a cutting breath, he scampered forward, hair blown back from his forehead, the wind no kiss to the crown of his head. What was he running from, you ask? He was running from the name Kurt Donald Cobain.