Bearing down on him was what seemed a merciless rage, an unrelenting
assault: The sun was at its highest point and, so, seated upon its
haughty throne, artfully unleashing what it had unleashed for countless
aeons. The rays speared into his back and pounded like angry, animate
monoliths.
How long had he been walking the dunes of the desert?
How long had he seen nothing but these ancient sands that had Time and
Death as their only companions? It may as well have been an eternity—an
eternity of stifling heat and incessant burning. There was but to trudge
on, and hope he would soon come to the end of his journey.
But
Hope was nowhere to be seen; Hope was gone; Hope had left the desert
long ago. The faithful keeper of the sands was not Hope but Her. And She
was always there, had always been there. Always watching and glaring
and abhorring. She was like the sun: implacable and single-minded. And
now She was studying him, sneering all the while. Only a bit longer had
she needed to wait before it was too late for him.
But it had
already begun. The creeping corners had started to close in. There in
the distance the tapestries had began to melt away and drip into mammoth
drains. All imperial aspects were shattering in the wake of
incomprehensible galleons. And what of the warm beds of carefree lovers?
Apostolic and apathetic.
These things were spinning about in his head; he heard them from every direction.
She was upon him.
M.M. — October MMIX
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