All around him the land was dry soil and withered bushes. A place, void of human existence.
Sunday had already tried to give up his name while in the midst of men, but had soon realized it to be a futile venture. He had thereby left his home - the small white house with paint torn of it's corners - and made his way to natures bosom, to the heart of the land.
He wandered far, and the rocky ground greeted his steps. He strode wide and his name, Sunday, did not follow him.
Three days ago
Deborah leaned over the sink, her hands clutching the wet cloth.
Sunday looked upon her in silence. Her shoulders spoke of her desperation and sorrow.
The raging clamor had subsided, but Sunday now realized that their words had crushed worlds.
Two days ago
All his possessions could, and did fit into the pockets of his jacket. He had left Deborah's tears and their mutual existence with no intent on turning back. The night he had spent in the car, rocked to sleep by the thunder of traffic from nearby.
His sleep had been ridden with dreams of serpents and saviors, of which one was particularly present and vibrant, and in it the mooring cables were cut and the sea - raging and terrible - engulfed him, and bore him to a place where sea ceased to be sea and turned into sand.
There he found himself, stranded between desert and sky, and the eyes of the land were set upon him.
When Sunday awoke, his steps were of a new kind and his mind was now set.
One day ago
Sunday had seen his end. As he was mugged and beaten at the train station he had caught a glimpse of it, played out before him like an old movie in the flashing strobe-like light of a passing train.
What he saw was his body, boiling under the unforgiving sun; his back, firmly against the sharp rocks and stones of the ground. The last breaths, barely heaving his chest. Just a dry, humble panting.
* * *
Now, the late afternoon sun made his shadow a lumbering giant. The distant mountain range was not unlike the small framed silhouette of some scaly lizard.
The echo of Deborah's tears was in the dry river beds, but all memories of anguish had been washed away by the streams of sand there, woken by the persistent wind.
The lizard range followed his trial. Sounds of the city, the turmoil and the traffic could - if one's mind was bent on it - be heard, riding through the void-like skies, but forbidden by the land to linger, it flowed across the world like a silk sheet, eventually dying out. Not in a breathtaking climax, but like the fading of a black-lunged man's dry cough, and who's last breath barely stirs the flame of his bedside candle.
Now, his bruises from the previous night didn't matter, and beginning and end was becoming a blurred binarity.
The lizard range beheld his turning, and his coronation.
