On the furthest point to the right of down under you will find the runaway town of Byron Bay. If you need to escape, if you need refuge, you move to Byron Bay, or at least that's what it seemed like growing up there as a kid. Every week there was a new guy in town, usually claiming to be a king of some far off land with some stories of grandeur. Those ones would always squirm if anyone inquired at any depth. But we knew why they came. The town is majestic. There's more secret rainfalls, surf breaks, dams, and beaches than I've seen anywhere on the planet. Although incredibly gentrified in comparison to the town of 2,000 I moved to in 1988, it still holds a magic quality. Aboriginal Folklore tells of the land's powerful healing qualities, and how it will invite you to be healed should the time be right in your life. However, they also say that you will be given a signal to leave, and, if you ignore that signal, then it will deliver negative consequences. This rings true for anyone who's seen the town operate for long. Go visit, sometime are March preferably, but remember, if you find a dreadlock in your hair, your time there is up.
"I'll burn that bridge when I get to it."