Just on and on.

He crossed forests and fields, orchards and highways, streams and rivers, deep woods and swamps, and on, and on he went.

He felt nothing, and saw nothing, and thought nothing, save to go on, always on.

In the dark he stumbled on and through the day he staggered on, and he stopped for nothing, save at times to lift water to his parched lips.
The bushes took his hat, the thorns ripped his shirt, the water soaked his shoes and they spread and his feet came through and the stones cut them until they bled.

Leaves and twigs stuck in his hair, and his eyes grew bloodshot, his lips and tongue swollen, and when he could go no further on his feet, he crawled on his knees, until at last he pitched forward on his face and lay still.