Cinnamon roll clouds invaded the darkening skies. Countless white fluff-balls of sheep spotted the hills, oblivious to the changing atmosphere.

He took a spot at the empty bench behind the post-and-rail fences that segregated him from the vast freedom before his eyes.
His rust-coloured jacket blended his already-inconsequential self into the orange seat.
Wineglass in hand, he placed the guitar by his side, reminiscing.

When was it anyone last heard from him?
Why did he believe that such arrangements would’ve been for the better?
What had he done to become the target, to lose everything he had dutifully earned?
Where could he go, now that all has been decided since the conception of the devious stratagem?
Who would listen to his explanations, after endless episodes of misconstruction?
How did one decision throw his life into disarray?

Bemused with his plight, he smiled ruefully.
Why else would he be here, if…