Of a thousand miles in walks, a thousand less in folks and strokes

Atticus always used to say - "Before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself.". The kid, hands now trembling o'er the pages wonders, "what then is it to live with myself when other folks wouldn't?"

There is in general a sense of identity innate to a human, and the siblings related and otherwise. But, is that one the kid's equipped to see, one does ask from time to time.

Yet again, Atticus smiles with a signature statement. “You never understand a person until you consider things from his point of view.” - the mark on the diary goes.

Where the folks call the kid out of climbing into his own skin and walking around with it, thereof he falters. Well before the long-winding valleys of living with others, his journey cut down. Falling short now by miles nine hundred ninety nine, and one more.

He isn't wise, age not now his companion in the art, the laps ahead from providence ne'er rushing in ever. Thereof then lies his prescience, his age, leaving him much to live, or so he thinks looking at the old man penning.