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Cienega and Sieves.

Transmissions to Earth

Across the desolate wasteland I drag myself by my bony digits, each caked in layers of sand mixed with blood hardened into some almost concrete substance. Hardly a body, I am barely alive. More like a feeble creature composed of mere skin and bones; some animate, three-dimensional stick figure vacuum-packed in a form-fitting, dilapidated epidermis baked to a light brown beneath the relentless rays of the desert sun. So far have I traveled up and down these dunes across this dusty tundra, so long past any reasonable estimated point of expiration. Why? Simple: because in this dramatic metaphor for my path through life I am at the same time immortal. I am subject to dying, but never death; the pathway of suffering without the release of reaching the final destination. I am bound to dying, verb; eternally shunned by death, noun.

Then comes the oasis. You turn to look at…

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