Though the sun shines unseasonably strong and its rays heat the air in days that are unrecognizable as November, nothing stands motionless as it would in the lethargy of summer, and a near-constant wind sweeps the city and kicks up dirt and is not powerful enough to really affect that which it touches, but instead scratches at every door, whimpers, as though nature itself were restless for change.
For days I have been losing water, like a ship sinking in reverse; I float above the wonders concealed in blue, and amidst the rocking of life’s waves I tear at the planks beneath my feet, hoping to find some sea, some cure for this desiccation. In this march through the desert, I feel my very personality weakening with my body, shriveled, chapped like my lips and cracked like the webbing of my fingers. Every movement feels like grating, my skin sliding against the stale air as if it were stone. I would drill wells into the very heart of my earth, but beneath the raining fists of the sun I forget how to dowse.