Sand
I may never get the sand out of my clothes. Out of my hair. Out of my…head. This is no fog, no mere dust. There’s some kind of old saying about dust settling and being able to see clearly…maybe I got that wrong. There was one about an hourglass, an ancient device for measuring time, using sand. It seems much more apt.
Sand doesn’t settle. It always shifts, always moves. It picks up on the slightest breeze, and with a driving wind can become like a thousand tiny bullets against bare skin. Sand will wear down even ancient stones. It is abrasive and tricky. One either learns to hide from it or change with it.
I don’t know why I’m alive. I know that my crew locked onto my signal and transported me off that desert rock just in time. I know that their loyalty runs as deep as their pockets. I know that I’m recovering well from my injuries, and still no closer to my revenge. I know that eventually…the sand will run out on my glass. I wonder what I will have to show for it?
Captain Koril 