It won’t matter for awhile now, but around now was a man inside a dream of Tel Aviv out east who was sitting at a little table on the street.
When it was dawn in Pennsylvania it was about noon in Israel. The man inside the dream of Tel Aviv was having lunch and staring wide-eyed at the masses and masses of people sprawled through the streets, running and walking and driving in every direction. He looked at his companion, incredulous.
His companion was a stuffed bird stitched to the skin of his shoulder. It didn’t say anything in response, but it might have squawked back if it had been alive. It seemed a friendly and discerning sort of bird.
The man was very large and very wide, and nobody inside the dream of Tel Avivi paid him any mind. Especially not his bird. He stopped mid-chew and felt the air change. He sniffed, straightened his back, and stared down, down, down the street and well outside the city limits. Into and past Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, to his home in the Sitgreaves National Forest in Arizona, where many things were happening in front of his gaze. He got up from his table and pushed in the chair, checked to make sure his shoes were tied, and started walking to the west. He made it to the Mediterranean and kept walking with his his head and shoulders and body submerged. He kept going right to the west until he hit land in Tunisia, and walked through that into Morocco, and through that into the water of the Atlantic.
And he knew he couldn’t hold his breath long enough to make it, because the Atlantic was very wide, so he walked on top of the water and didn’t pay it much mind. He occupied himself while he walked by picking bits of seaweed and algae out of the bird that was stitched to the skin of his shoulder. And before long, he had made it all the way west, where he kept walking home, to be where the things were happening.