About
Your eyelids stick as you try to open them, sealed by grit and mucus. You try to blink the adhesive away but manage to rally too few tears to adequately liberate your crusty eyes. Your lids part to bleached desert under a spiteful sun. The air is dry. Your skin is dry. Your lips are dry. You run a not-damp-enough tongue over Ash Trapped in Cracked Lips. You have awoken in the Endless Sands, the Pr…
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