Max sat upon the fallen wall. He surveyed the landscape, noticing the tilted cairn and rolling hill leading up to chalk cliffs, cobblestone path meandering besides a bog where a pasture of sheep grazed on the grass that swayed in the light wind.  Looking behind you could see, far in the distance, granite peaks, their foothills with sparse trees, struck by lightning, gnarled and knotted, roots spread deep. The firmament of sky spread out above him and the first night’s star winked into sight. A donkey brayed and walked by. Packers, he thought and two faces, wizened by exposure to the elements, looked back at him. Max had no idea would country this was so he didn’t know whether to say Howdy, give a refined curtsy and say How do you do?, or if this was some other country entirely. The two men let out a complicated expression of greeting, touching the top of their heads, which Max noticed had a small twirl of hair on it, gelled to a point. He pulled each other’s cheeks, warbled like an Indian and rode off on their horses.
All of a sudden, Max awoke to the honk of a horn. His head had been slumped on the steering wheel to realize the speedway was all but empty. His windshield was cluttered with tickets and he looked around, realizing it was 2 o’clock on a business day and he was 8 hours late. He must have nodded off in the usual bumper-to-bumper commute and had probably been there the entire time.