The sun, restlessly, beats down its hot, brutal and cold breath all over the desert, not one spot is being spared in any emotional sense. While a lone man is doing his very best to walk and walk for hour after hour over the lonely desert. The desert can feel and sense his desperate tired body wishing to merely stop and simply sit down and just wait for death to claims its prize, once again. Ah, but he is made of steel, emotionally and physically. There is a confederate hat covering his short black hair that is covered in old, fresh drops of sweat. There is a fairly new scar on his left side of his forehead. He cannot recall how the scar came to be or his name or how he came to be ambling in this desert and or how he is going to escape this unforgiving desert. His red boots are pressing hard down on the desert. There is so much, sand inside his boots, now.