𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 , birds of prey are left with no choice but to loiter where it burns . air out in the westies is hot as if land is based not far from the equator , and it hurts , scalds and swells at blisters within the holes of torn cotton , exposed flesh , scratched and beaten , brutally ---- 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡 . when he stands , feet sink closer to the earth’s core , grains of sand brushing just above the ankles , keeping an ounce of body one foot under . though , he feels as if he could already be buried five more . 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚜 . yet , six hours ago , he would’ve still noticed just how much . 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 can’t seem to quip about the pain no more , but maybe about worse things . ❝ we’re gonna die out here because of you . ❞
@sadhill
