Bag of iron, bottle of water, bed of sand. BAMF flies beat their bony wings on my hand. Boiled bacteria, dying parasites, dead ground. This is nothing like heaven or the beach. Though if one listens carefully to the desert, they find life in its true form. Because dust cannot pretend like we can.
They will tell us to cautiously remove all obstacles with the heal of our boots, "Or else the serpent may once again extend its devilish fangs. "
What a touchy position to be in. Here is the bottom of a land trodden by ancient forefathers we do not know. Still we cautiously remove the obstacles, and then we listen, fall into sand, surrender into barren wasteland.
Conflict controls us. If you ask the desert why, it may know.