Own steps kissed by the sands that covers such familiar yet unfamiliar lands, each pace marked in gritty reminders that despite the aches born attached to celestial soul from the wandering heart and mind full of hopes and dreams, there is always a place to sleep, and a place to live. Dear Sun is falling, falling, and falling, and they will not. They will not bow down to Darkness and its Stars and Moon just yet. What is effort when the warm stomach is bare and the open eyes are heavy. What is time when they can not be awake and asleep at once.
Without them, they do not remember how to worship these celestial creations, the connections they bear along with life and death, prelife and afterlife. If they do not remember how to do so, how can they worship anything?
Tonight, though, they will dance with the clouds, the constellations, the everything beyond their grasp. Let their soul be their flames and winds, using ashes and dusts to form another story of how they would survive another day, how they would live another day. They think tonight because within them, determination burns bright yet gentle, a bold telling to this world they will find what one can call it a home soon. Seconds after seconds to days after days, there is only hunger. For new words, new souls, new experiences. Though there are connections between them and those around them, there are still distant from them. Hunger grins at them, and they want it gone.
Among them, a scent fills in. The presence halts and takes it. Visions flicker from everything to nothing then back again. Repeating. Breathing throughout the moment. Realization that there is a place nearby sinks in, and they quickens their pace before they stop by a scented line. Mountains fill their visions and they sit to analyze both the beauty and terror of them. A shaky sigh pierces through the reality that shakes from its a touch of power.
It is time at last, and so, there, by the border, there is a massive ball of light, their shape unknown behind the never ending whiteness. Waiting. Silence. Already speaking in a language that is closing its eyes.