To say that I was surprised at my good fortune or the providence of fate would be an understatement. All I knew is that I arrived.  Exactly where I’d arrived I didn’t know. All I knew was that the magic worked.  But maybe it worked a little backwards, a little sideways, or up ways, because nothing looked familiar. It didn’t look like L.A. or San Francisco. It wasn’t New York or Chicago either. There weren’t any tall building. Just a low canopy of trees and a dense, oppressive fog. I had to move. I stood up and slapped mud from my jeans trying to find a bearing. Turning full circle, I decided north could be any direction. So I picked a marker in the distance and began walking toward it.
I made my path as I stepped over gnarled tree roots and dodged small gullies of water that never led to bigger streams or a wide river. The terrain rolled easily. I’ve never been on an English moor, but I imagine this place is what a moor would look like.
I walked for an hour, maybe more or maybe less. The fog never lifted, never ebbed, nor shifted to the brightness of the sun beyond. The unfamiliarity of the scene worked on me until I stumbled over a tree root and sat on the ground rubbing my ankle and cursing. In this moment of pain my mind stopped whirring. It stopped filling the void of soundlessness. Like the fog, the silence thickened. No bird called nor frog croaked. No flies pestered. Water flowed without sound. A deafening silence surrounded me. What I thought was providence was nothing more than purgatory.