A deafening thud ensues the plummet of a desolate man, and the majestic canyon receives a faithful soul who has clung onto an ungraspable memory of what life used to be. The roaring reverberations disperse through the arid rocks, through abrupt drops of heights and the grotesque oblique edges which seem to have tore through the land in archaic times, until it halt, out of abject horror, in sight of the blazing flame which is recklessly consuming the material remnants from, what was, an era of monstrous growth. It is left to be unknown whether the others have simply left or have decided to descend themselves into their fiery graves, were they willing to rekindle their sun-borne bodies with a vital finality.

As the sandstorm clears itself the chill currents of the wind forms a meandering path. The debris of the unwarranted calamity traverses through lofty drafts, carrying them through the uncharted wilderness until it bears traces of civilization no longer. Here the ripples of the ground appear the most prominent, and thousands of years of tectonic movement must have resulted in this erratic terrain. Here the man lies, engulfed so barely in a world that has long forgotten the state of unbeing, the silent oration of death. There exists a solemn quality in this scene, when everything ends where it started, a sight vivid without a beholder. Now the streams return to motion, rejuvenating the adjacent roots as it forces its way through the reluctant soil.

And I descend. Through the channels in the air, the distance between the man and the rubble of what used to be home becomes irrelevant. The flammable surfaces of their dwellings have been overhauled. The societal viscera that remained serve as a witness to the summit of their sophistication. Nothing else stays but the more permanent objects that were ceremonially placed in patterns which the exterior world has difficulty comprehending. Through their rearrangement of the fabric of tangibility they have willingly wedded themselves to mortality. The wind continues its progression, so does the rest of the world move.

Hence the return to the last human carrion, and I descend. The face can no longer be recognized, yet its frigid body retells the story of its miraculous escape. When life finally murders its creations, this body manages, in its last breath, to attain a peculiar strength to seek the nonexistent future… I removed my beak from its flesh. Instead I returned, returned to a flock of us, a conspiracy of us, perhaps because I couldn’t bear to see myself.