55

I see a man in the middle of the desert. I stop running and bend my head back to try to get a view of the fantastic machine just behind him with cables twice the thickness of his body. It reached up toward the sky with no discernible end, two forked extensions branch out of the central core, one pointing upward and the other on the left side of the machine jutting out at a perfect angle. I see that it looks...just like Godsong. Or rather...it looks like Godsong was a piece of this larger machine.

The side of the machine has ICARUS printed on it.

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The man is middle aged with a gruff dirty blond goatee that covers most of his face. He’s wearing a shawl that covers most of his body, I don’t understand how it isn’t baking him alive. He looks at me with a sort of bemused amusement. He laughs a hearty sound and raises a hand to the back of his head.

“Quick question, traveler,” He begins, regarding me with a smile. “Do you think I need a haircut? I haven’t quite decided. Whenever I let it get this long I want to chop it all off sometimes, but I mean...whenever I actually do I always want to grow it right back out,” he lets out a half-sigh-half-chuckle kind of sound. He looks back up to me, now rubbing a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “It almost makes me want a drink.”