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.

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