Because it’s lunchtime, and because he’s a writer, he takes a writer’s lunch, twisting the truth when he writes because he believes that truth, untwisted, is far less fun to read; that the straight line from fact to fact, while short and direct, is also predictable and, often, boring.
He gives the pathetic parking lot seagull eagle feathers, lets it soar awhile, then allows it to swoop down on the placid asphalt lake to pluck out a french fried salmon before catching an upward thermal and gliding back to its perch at the apex of the mountain’s golden arch.
All the cars parked around the lake look like spaceships, and he knows that some of them are; knows that some of their absent owners are still out there somewhere, floating around, weightless. He has driven his own pickup to the moon, determined it to have neither atmosphere nor ambiance, but only reluctantly considers re-entry.
All things are alien to him now. He is a stranger in his own land.