The days are long and dry, and he could have forgiven it if he were walking alongside a stream or river. But his tongue has been traded for sand and grit, and feels more like a foreign object lolling around his mouth.

He’s seen the corpses of long-dead men that have been baked underneath many midday suns, and he wonders whether this is how it feels to be them. Cracking, dusty, and so dry.

In his mind’s eye, the sand swims around him, and the rocks become like upside-down boats, as if they were capsizing on purpose in order to store water in their hidden mouths.

In his mind, he asks one for water, and it gurgles like a baby before bursting out a spring.

Blah blah blah

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