I Met God On The Side Of A Freeway

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The man woke to an invisible world. 

His head was pounding; A gong humming after one particularly overzealous orchestra rehearsal, chirring in a strange, inebriated tone. The grainy vacuum he was allowed pulsed white and grey, and it muddled over his eyes as a rough affliction. For now, he was cured of his sight. He felt a roughness beneath him, an unclean. Parts of it stuck to his skin in tiny crystalline bunches, which he realized now were digging themselves into his cheeks. 
Asphalt. Arid and parched. 
He shifted himself on the concrete, turning on his side weakly and brushing tiny, dirty pellets from his jaw. It was a pitiable attempt at relieving his discomfort, unfortunately; his head was suffering the brunt of the bother, and every movement only exacerbated the force in his eyelids. Prodding - nails in a tire. He could not help but moan in response. Again, he turns – knees and elbows hold him like gelatin, and his brain writhes sharply in its shell. The chatter crescendos, his eardrums become war drums, things pull themselves from the black and sway in his
memory.
A hiding spot under a giant's chair. A mural above a cheap leather couch. Liquor on a wood floor. A child in limbo. Life.
Bile sat itself in the back of his throat - he could feel his body paying for a night of heavy drinking with exploitative, profit driven interest; and his picked poison shot onto the asphalt. His eyes watered while he stared at the vile mass. Some of it had hit his jeans; it danced into the black fibers and stained him with the stench of bar. A sluggish brush of a flannel limb left a wet sphere on his thigh. He looked at his hands. 
Wine had dried in the center of his left palm and spread outwards; tracing the creases into a Z. An M? His head did not want to think, and it let him know with a sharp ripple, which ran deep through the creases in his neck. In that moment, all he knew was his most basic of instincts.
I must get up.
He shrunk into himself and watched the world behind twin panes. 
Through the glass, a blurred sketch of his body was learning how to balance. 
Right leg up. Right foot down. Left hand down. Left leg up. Squat. Straighten the knees. 
He is standing. His eyes are open. 
In front of him was a stretch of road – grey, freed of soul. There was not an inch of bend or turn in the horizon, which did not end in a curve, but continued as a flat plane until the air smeared it into sightlessness. To his right, tall, looming evergreens bent towards the asphalt, each flaunting extravagant coats. They were too perfect – many kept their prickles a deep jade, and they seemed alive, in the human way. To his left was the same as the right. An exact copy. Both sides were curious. 
The man turned his eyes towards the empty sky. Light blue, a fixed shade everywhere; he might have mistaken it for a painting if he wasn't under it himself. Everything could have been. 
It was then he noticed the stillness.  ///// His boots tap the stone, and he is quiet as a panther hunting. He stomps. Not a sound. The evergreens watch him silently.