a hot dry place.

The desert.
Deep and dry.
Hot.
Full of air.
The smell of dry rain.
I could walk with him for a week,
And never be hit in the face by a single thing.
And on the seventh day I could turn around.
And know,
And see,
Everywhere I've just been.
Like the moments of my life had become a cactus, a red rock, a gila monster.
Day six, five, four.

Facing the desert.
Barefoot.
I should jump off mightily.
I should SCREAM!! like a wild sandlot kid.
Or I should just stand here silently.
Tilted toward... toward what?... Who knows?!
I can feel more.
I can feel more.

I am fighting against the space, just trying to embrace more of it.
I am fighting the air, just to feel the end of it.
But it never comes.
It can't.

I fall into the sky forever.
Into its space that demands nothing except the emptiness of its audience. And I think I am the audience. Alone, I am aware of this war in my heart. It beats for the sky, but it is silenced by the same. I am empty now.

It will convince you that there's nothing else.