Wandering the scrublands. An army of skeletons with no place to call home. Withered under the indifferent sun. Under the cruel eyes of grinning masters. Under the nose of an absent God.
Small wonder then, that they should turn to that great black pillar. Alone in the sands. Waiting for them. Whispering. No place to turn. Nowhere to run. Accept these gifts, o traveller. Accept them and rejoice. The Devil will set you free.
Paddy Dobson
20th December 2021