I came across a dried oak, rooted deep into the sand. Its branches tipped with sharp breaks. The tree was lonesome, not another for many miles. Despite its dead look and lack of leaves, it stood tall and proud, like a conqueror of the sands. Nowhere else would this tree be superior, but in this desolate land it seemed like even the wind didn't dare to brush past. Even in fierce sandstorms the grainy hurricane would part like the Red Sea around this wooden pillar. Besides the sand, I seemed to be the only thing in this place that was oblivious to this branched behemoth's reputation. I stumbled and fell, taking shelter under it. My skin needing a break from the sun and my breathing becoming too heavy to carry. I fiddled through my satchel and pulled out my canister. The heat had made me stubborn, I had told myself I wouldn't drink till I found shelter. Shelter, I should have known, was all too rare in this world. I tipped the container over my face but nothing happened. I looked inside, it was full to the brim. I tried to pour and even observed the water refusing to leave the cold and shaded confinement. Had it gained a mind of its own or had I simply lost mine? I drifted into a weak slumber, my body convincing itself it could breathe sand if I just laid my face down upon it. My brain was ringing a tune about not needing water, just needing sleep. This tune was so hypnotic that I couldn't help but give in.
