Waking up. Eyes full of dust.. Sandy taste still on the insides of every corner of the mouth. Awakened to the sound of clanging. Another windstorm.

Passing time playing cards with ones self. Not knowing what the symbols mean.. The game is meaningless, but thought provocking. Hours pass, with yet no meaning to be found. Still, the game draws intrest.. Time is not spared. The as the wind settles the feeling of cold mettle is felt beneath the soles before transfering to uncomfortably crampt spaces known as foot ware. No time for wasting. Another day  breathing through a makeshift mask. The wind carries debree and if today proves to be lucky, debree will mean more then meaningless papper.

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Empty bottles and sharp jagged edges barly visible from the sandy surface have little hope as reuse.Though sharp.. Unwanted and seem to be just as useless as ever.. Travling for days on end it seems there is little hope in finding new food. However the horizin can not be seen, the unclear view of land may be in your dismay.. However these eyes use is not only in sight. Thought is where they lie. Under the surface is treasure. Only wonder is where to start. The ground is sof with sand.. But under all of this is the old. Small trinkets to one man or another. But these torn hands.. Anything is of use. 

Another day in isolation. Where does it end? This is where one story beggins. And questions beggin.