words per minute
2
OdeViscera
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He covets the emptiness of the desert; the long silent roads, the dust familiar red, the distant shapes that might be men or gods but must be strangers all the same.
The desert is a good place to be alone. No tribe, no soldiers, no farmer's wife, no echoes of a sister long dead. Only stone, and dust, and wind, and sun.
It will not last forever.
He wants to swallow it whole.
Zion is painted in colors Tsela can barely name. It blooms in a way he knows he will never be able to describe to a stranger. It fills his lungs with flowers and honey.
No matter how he tries to stifle the red thing in him, bury it in the fertile places and let it grow back something kinder, it always catches on fire again in the end.
He can taste smoke all the time here.