Out in the desert even the rattlesnakes have forgotten their names. The moon is fat, hanging overhead, a palid herald of a witching dawn. Over in the east hints of watery blue edge cautiously along the horizon, skirting the big cold empty. The wind caresses raw earth, gentle for the lack of cover, picks at my shirt sleeves, ruffles my hair. Face down, blood has been pooling cross my eyes, drawing a crimson shade on my soul. This is how it ends, and how it begins. After six hours paddling on the shores of final sleep, stumbling to my feet is the only thing to do. I flap out slowly at the crows. My toes might be broken. It doesn't seem to matter.

The cracked tarmac unrolls forever. There's nothing out here but skittering birds and scrub, the pickup ruined miles back and pissing gasoline. After a while I start picking the glass out of my arms. It leaves a trail behind me that no-one will ever follow, reflection after criss-cross reflection of the lightening sky, dimmed and black edged.

The desert flattens before my gaze. Oversized silvery beetles, even the lonely trailers push themselves into the ground to avoid me. The disposessed pull their sheets up tighter as I slope by. The curve of the earth tries to escape. Night vanishes as colour seeps back into the world. I can only smile with it. Stop for a moment in the middle of the road, look out on my vacant domain as the breeze picks at me like a scab.

Somewhere in the accounting I have been misplaced, left behind, forgotten... and all I ever did with my life was wait to die, kept company by scorpions, the moon, Jack Daniels. I sigh through the slight rictus. There's a feeling of something flaking inside.

I pick up my feet. Haul my carcass onward. If the sun never makes it into the sky, I won't be surprised.