:: XXIII :: Desert  on the still of sandthe sublimation of cardiceencloses the space betweenprojected upon its wallswith scratching shrillsis the sight of mr bonesyelling something over the rage ofhaboob furied sands, choking the pullof any warning he’s attemptingbut like the zoetropeslices flicker on the mistof him staring calmly“the wind is merely a distraction dear.do not be fooled by what it stirs”