I embark upon a mind's desert journey in order to survey a wilderness landscape far from the grasp of Winter's thrall upon my captive self. Only then may I perceive the sublime beauty and precious rarity of water. Otherwise, the deluge that, in reality, engulfs, drowns a community, leaves me ironically unappreciative of heaven's bounty.
The sky is a hot, blazing azure that permits no trace of cloud and moisture. Verboten, likewise, is all trace of verga. As night settles in and scorching becomes a more tolerable hot-enough, creatures of the night scurry forth and do what instinct says do. Eerily subdued cries of the jackal send chills up and down a spine long since unaccustomed to frissons in so jaded a host. My footfalls upon the cooling sands crunch down, creating eddies of swirling grains that demand entry into my boots. This is what I sense, yet there is no sound. None.
The temple I seek is just ahead. Several meters more and I shall touch its gleaming walls of glass, porcelain and adamantine steel. A mere few steps more. There it is ... through a moonlit, shimmering haze I glimpse faith's reward of rest and refreshment for a hope eternally held. Soon I shall enter its gates ...
A cold wind passes over me and startles me into wakefulness. I open my eyes to reality and ... home.
Day 39 of rain.
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