Paint the man, cut the lines, cut the flesh, watch the blood spill – let it come!

The desert dunes were like waves in a sluggish sea. While the caravan moved the land appeared motionless, but in camp the hills moved.

I know this. I've been here already. I know this taste – the taste of Damascus Rose obfuscating the truth in a dim haze. They may sweep the traces from my memory, but my body remembers. These cuts speak volumes, even though my mind remains silent.

They will be back. Oh, they will be back.

The statues were praying – gazing into the dark domed ceiling.

I wish I could ask you how much you remember. I don't know if there will be anything left after I consume this drink.