Lion Head Mesa Shake like the bough of a willow tree.

A sloppy mound of something cold drew across his forehead. The shadow nearest to him spoke and he could not avoid the sound of the voice, or the sense that it was real, but he did not react to any of it.

There was a bead of water drawing a line across his face as it dribbled, dripping down his cheek. He only wanted to sleep. His eyes felt as if they were dry and full of sand; the rest of him, he thought, would soon fall away beneath a breeze.

He could be smoke. Black against a blue sky. Smouldering.

Still, the shadow pressed the cold moss to his face and tended him, trying to subdue the heat of his skin.

Fade here, have another?