She travelled across a desert with the sun on her back, gathering beads of diamond sweat in the seams of her elbows. Slowly, December starts to pull underneath her feet and the world is losing bricks and mortar. No more do curious eyes come to rest on her hands. Sometimes she is glad that she has left civilisation behind. It is the sand in her eyes that engraves itself firmly. The nights are bitter, a game of chance between a pitched canvas tent and an ailing life. This is what she was born to see. The walk would clutch at her thighs and stretch her consciousness. Sand forms fissures in a hungry void, and she is afraid that she might stumble deep into the black. Her life is wilting. But there are still hundreds of steps to take, and only she can take them.

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