As it happens, there are no open highways in the Cévennes

(dedicated to David McAninch)

as it happens, all roads lead to Nome. little roads; big roads; fat roads; thin roads; and roads scholars, too. in Nome the countryside predominates; the urban landscape is minimal, not to say flatulent. even the lichen are trying to move out into the suburbs, or get a place in the country where the shooting is good.
as it happens, I used to travel far from the open highways when I was a brine merchant. there were delicious vistas consisting of cream puff mountains, vermilion grass fires, sunsets at noon when the cows came home, and a smattering of lickerish wombats up in the trees near the summer home of Robert Louise Stevenson.
as it happens, my Citroen came down with the mumps one time so I had to hire a rickshaw with a sun roof. they don't come cheap, so I was under the gun to sell a lot of brine that month. luckily I came across a tribe of mummers who were being paid off in cucumbers -- they were glad enough to purchase all the brine I had. I gave them a little discount. why not? there's more to life than money and open highways. a guy can do a favor once in a while, can't he? 
as it happens, the mummers fell on me while I was asleep and stripped me of my funds, my rickshaw, and my clothes. so I lay there bleeding and half dead until the police led me away to a misty tarn where wildflowers were sewn into my scalp. it hurt, but you should see the baby voles each spring.