There was a time when the world curiously expanded beyond the last streetlight of Elm Street. Gerald, who fancied himself a cartographer of quotidian realms, walked there, a forgotten compass in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other. The limits of light and shadows dictated by the street’s glow were, in his opinion, the world’s most understated borders.
At noon, he unfolded a map composed of coffee stains and lunch receipts, its routes dictated by the whims of pigeons and bus schedules. His logic was simple: if a path wasn’t on a map, it needed to be walked. Absurdly, he often thought of the cartography of dreams, where rivers flowed uphill and hills were merely the world sleeping on its back.
One bright Tuesday, Gerald discovered a 'lost' territory marked by a sign that read "Caution: Unexpected Cows." As cows were neither unexpected nor particularly concerning to him, he sat beneath the sign, contemplating the philosophical implications of their bovine presence.
Nearby, an old woman sold shadows for nickels, claiming her shadows were the finest ever cast. People laughed, but Gerald found the trade compelling. With a shadow in hand and the cows as witness, he reached the conclusion that horizons could be spoken of in every language but understood in none.
The cows seemed unfazed by shadow sales, seemingly lost in their own meditative state, perhaps pondering the nature of fields and fences, or simply enjoying the sunbeam scattered symphony of the day.