In one swift movement, his favorite meals appeared before his eyes. The pavement was piled high with food, strewn and littered with it. Buttery pastas from Italy. Gastronomically exquisite burgers. Pearly dumplings pregnant with savory filling, in danger of bursting their translucent wrappings. Shiny saucers, bowls, plates, and cups were stacked upon the trash bags and rotten food remnants.

Slowly he consumed the food in front of his face until nothing was left in his hand. But around him nothing changed. Infinity stayed the same. He ate and ate and ate, still feeling ravenous. The dumplings took him soaring across the Great Wall of China, the pastas gently lifted him up, carrying him on doughy wings. The old man is in Italy, standing above the Leaning Tower of Pisa, at the edge of the railing, eight stories beneath his feet. He looked, and looked, and looked. Then he took off. His wings had no breaking point soaring through the damp, dirty streets of New York City to the lush, verdant greens of Italy.

Something sharp hit his side. Almost like he was being kicked. The old man shook it out of his mind. The real world was here. In the air, surrounded by the most delicious food airborne alongside him. He said nothing, devised no plans; he was content there. He was far away from the cold pavement of his home, away from the lonely bustle of the city, from the leaky air-conditioning units and the cement buildings sprayed with graffiti.

“Get out of the way!” The old man began to jerk, consciousness began to drag him back. Or maybe it was unconsciousness. Reality was uncertain. A bright light crept into his eyes. The food began to rot, wild, and disappear around him.

The old man woke up, harsh light in his face. The grey cityscape back. He’s lying on the pavement in reeking clothes next to a dumpster. He looks at his hand. It is wrinkled and soiled. People are walking past him. He slowly stands up, grabbing his old cup and shaking it by habit.

He was back to being the homeless man he always was.