Namib Desert

It's always brought some strange familiarity upon me,

The vestiges of earth diffusing throughout every crevasse of my mind.

There is no edge effect here; there cannot be,

For the divergency, the juxtaposition, 

gives rise to mountainous regions far beyond my capacity,

Though vacant I seem.

Vacant I seem, with every glimpse of deserted sea vanishing, diminishing,

In my hands, gently.

But in my blood, in my circuits, or my gears, 

the mechanical factors driving my body to utter insanity,

The mechanical factors lightly grasping onto the last sands,

The next swell pervades the shore.

They've come so close, 

But the impossibility is flawless,

An image perfeclty composed of the dry, the moist, the overbearing heat, and the overwhelming relief.

Perfectly composed, an symphony of only violins and basses.

They've come so close

To recognizing the composer,

To uncoding the edges,

To returning to what they know. 

They've come so close to it all.

But the Namib Desert is opaque, 

not with reasoning, but with being.