The fog settles benevolently on the shady, isolated highway, nestled in the bosom of a winding mountain of abstract thinking. A hermit is grazing on the grass that grows on the ever shifting paradigm of a mountain, and begins to depend on the plants to fuel his free thinking. But ever since the clouds built the detour on the highway, his audience are quietly diverted into a pasture, where they are welcome to graze on whatever makes them feel comfortable. With no one to pass on his thoughts to, his brain slowly deteriorates into the jagged philosophical remnants of a madman, his once flowing river of thinking diverted into a festering pool of inadequacy. The fog that once blanketed abstraction turns to a haze of malevolent memories and insufficient information, and so the mountain weeps at the loss of a friend, and moves on. The hermit, robbed of his sanity, as if sanity wasn’t relative, tears down the detour sign, and erects a new road into the haze; hoping passersby will have the mental capacity to stop in for a rest and a listen before going back to their rolling pastures of ignorance. “Maybe, just maybe”, he thinks, the mountain will return.