A barren desert lies at the edge of imagination, a place called the death of dreams. Not even their bones remain; when they are broken, they shatter like bubbles made of thin glass and disperse on the wind.

Hope is the light, but it is fickle as a will o' the wisp. It seems forever away, or blinks out, only to appear again, somewhere further off again. No sun. No moon. No stars.

Nothing can live here, but footprints mark the paths of those who have passed through. Their feet are cut by the sharp edges of the shattered, sandy ground, and their blood marks the false earth. Even if they pass through at the same time, they will never see each other. They can't.

It aches to be here. The air is cold in the way that doesn't allow for a promise of heat to come, and stale enough to leave the lungs dry. Even the wind only stirs up the sand long enough to let it slash at the skin and shimmer, diffusing the view of the lights above.

Quickly, they learn to close their eyes to the wind, too afraid to lose them. They block out the light, and only remember what hope looked like in the recesses of their minds as a dim echo.

Some grow weary, tired of the ache. Tired of the cuts on their feet and only being able to discern the path they have taken by the stains behind them. They grow a womb of armor, thickening their spirit around them like a shield. Draw up their feet, and, eyes still closed, rise into the sky. Only memory can reach inside this space. From within, all looks black. The wasteland becomes a void.

The eye is another story, for another time.

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