and the sweat lingers with a thin film of dust, dirt, mold -- whichever what have you. what little hydration left of this soft fleshy vessel seeps through this veil. creating rivers of mud that flood the eyes and blind. though hue of general existence if silh- outted. and we follow the sou- nds hoped spoke on the proper path. shambling the brush, ankles caught tight in the thorns of the undergrowth. never a first in leaving a blooded footpath home. and false words call us upon a path in Life long returned to Nature from man. and with blin- ded eyes and gnarled sense, trouncing the threshold of door long closed, fearing only the chance of having all ended. the Ocean's desert is nothing but the sweat of Man's ages' turned to dust. ended of a vessel when purpose has seen fulfillment. to nurture, and bring forth perpetuation of the curious disappeared mysteries resting unburdened, with ponde- ring left nulled. and recreation, re-mythologizing aeons not long past. only a couple thousand since the last hoarfrost blast.