And then he finds himself in a desert-a kaleidoscope of sand and stars that filled the expanse of his visions. An ancient caravan passes over the horizon, and the putrid smell of cinnamon and cardamom was tangled in the malevolent vines of air that traveled eastwards.
He rests on a maroon carpet that weaved his stories; hatred and failures, disappointments and depressions, borderline psychosis and insipidness. The carpet, it seems, is veined to the sands and like film noirs that flash through projectors, he views his life in the starry darkness above him.
Sometimes he enjoys the desert and the stories it tells. The sand, moon and stars, to him, an ancient romance that intensifies the surrealness of the experience. But there are also those nights, dark viper nights that reciprocate the frost of his soul. The longer he stayed there, the colder it becomes.