I sit alone in a dead world. The wind blows hot and dry and the dust gathers like particles of memory waiting to be swept away. I pray for forgetfulness - yet my memory remains strong - as does the outstretched arm of the oppressive air.
It seems to me the wind has been there since the beginning of the nightmare. Sometimes loud and harsh, a thousand sharp needles scratching at my reddened skin. Sometimes a soft whisper, a curious sigh in the black of night of words more frightening than pain. I know now the wind has been speaking to me. Only I couldn't understand because I was too scared.
I am scared now as I right these words. Still, there is nothing left to do.
