Look at the man. He is bony and ragged and his cheeks are hollow and blackened by a pepperish thin stubble because he hasn’t shaved in a long while, hard to tell how long exactly. He wears a tattered cotton shirt stained with urine coloured shapeless patches of stale sweat. The shirt is unbuttoned and opened wide, revealing his emaciated rib cage with ribs like brittle fish bones which only a fine layer of pruney skin protects from total exposure. He is alone out here in the desert and knows that if he dropped dead right this moment there wouldn’t be a solitary soul living on this earth that could come and recognise his face afterwards, after it’s been picked apart by giant birds and sand-dwelling lizards, let alone shed a tear and bury his dried-up corpse in a decent plot of earth somewhere. But he isn’t going to die…