On one still morn I found your letter here under the dust. Opened up, and I read for the first time in my young life, details of what I had done with the thirst and recognised all those things that everyone always had seen. What they always had seen. Oh when they told me all the things that they'd seen.

A man looks out with the sun on his back and his shadow before him, twice as large. Why do things born out of the dark live so long? I am myself. It means too much to me, my fault. It can't be helped. My head returns to nest in the sand. And you know my neck will bend.

Like in the dessert when you dream for drops of rain. The guest you're waiting for never arrives and all that remains is your reluctance to admit you're not prepared. And while you sit there you commit yourself to always being scared.

Your letter stung. I drifted miles on an island alone. Oh brother come. Don't let me down, don't leave me where no one else can see.

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