A forgotten highway. Cracks and potholes everywhere. a single faded yellow line dividing two asphalt black lanes. dry grass everywhere. The only sound is a hot wind ripping through everything. An old man with bushy grey eyebrows and a bulbous swollen red nose slowly plods along the side of the old road. He is wearing an ancient, yet fairly well kept pair of grey slacks, and a white collared shirt stained from the sweat of a thousand sticky summers, it's sleeves are rolled up. His hair is thin and grey. And disheveled from the hot wind. He is carrying a paper sack. Full of something. The sound of a motorcycle approaches from the distance. It's driver, an african american male in his 30's smiles at the old man. His fingers are fixed in a peace sign gesture as he glides onward. the old man plods on. leaving only the sound of the wind. And the heat. He pulls out a harmonica and begins to play. As he lumbers on.