Desert got its bones in you. Can’t love anything that immortal and not come back changed, come back unscathed. Sand weathered skin and conditional immortality. Black glass fucking city in the desert where you lived all lit up and shining like arson gone domestic, black fucking glass in the sand where the lightning strikes reflect the night sky. Rainstorm on the horizon. Desert got into your fucking blood by this point. Rainstorm overhead. Floodwater would kill you just as sure as the sun does. Rainstorm over the far-off lit up belly of the city. If you look there are things that grow in the desert. Rainstorm on the far horizon. If you look there are things that live with the desert in them just like you do. Wasteland with a green underbelly. Desert wrapped around your soul and sinking roots in. Conditional immortality. The desert says to you, one night when the cold is in your lungs deeper than any word you’ve ever spoken, you will die, yes. I will kill you, yes. You will come back, yes. Rainstorm on the horizon. Floodwater. Drought. To live in a desert is to know each extreme. To live with the desert in your soul is to not be killed by either. Sun breaks like an egg over the sky. The desert carves new houses for itself out of your bones.
THE VULTURES OUT HERE KNOW IT BEST: THERE IS NO SENSE IN WASTING DEATH // PD