The man collapsed to the desert floor, dreams and memories pouring between the sand. Temporal bonds formed in a place where time did not exist. The fine rock itself stood unaltered; it spoke of the highest powers, of the myriads of existence.
The man held the maroon sand, a grim sense of beauty filling him. Clumps of the dried mixture cleaved off from one another like melting glaciers under the most minute movements of his hand. Eons passed, and the last of the sand and stain fell from his hand. His gaze shifted from the sand in his hand to the sun hung lonesomely on the horizon.
Smiling, he rose to his feet and paced steadily towards that same lonesome horizon, no end in sight. In a desert without time the man eyed his own wound, comfort swelling in his eyes. He collapsed into his own blood dust, bringing some portion of things together once more.