A look across the expansive wasteland of desert loomed forever on the range under glow.
The moon passed through a fog of dust and mired tidings that the west held for each man.
Here the mouse stood, decorated in the bone of another bleached into marrow yellow ivory.
His journey, long trodden but incomplete.
The end, invisible against the horizon that faded in and out of conceptualization.
Alone in these western spaces, ominous; yet we all stand alone to meet each fateful moment.
One foot after the other he continued on with careful glances to each corner that the lunar murk obscured.

No one said it would be easy...
"No one lives your own life," he thought.
No one owns the desert.
The world is mine only in my mind.
I own myself through this fearful fate.
What name do I give myself?

What is a name worth in the sonder of a desert that watches but is soulless?
Is that what the undead feel like?

His neck, draped in red cloth.
His chest vested in black.
The tail was as bone-like as the horns he adorned.
A living thing fighting the bleaching light; moon or sun.
Faded but alive.

One step after the other.