Pollock is doomed.

Worse still, he knows he's doomed, it'd been two days in the desert, flipping between freezing and burning to death, his entire skin was attempting to shear itself. It has been his second night, remnants of sweat on his brow have solidified to ice in the night.

His lips felt like eroding rock, and he had a firm belief that his hair would kill him, then in the night, it was a vital defense to a universe hellbent on killing him.

The sand is fine, when he walks, it sinks under the weight of his foot, slipping away and rushing past, he feels like he's walking through silty mud, and he realises if he thinks about this enough, his brain produces enough thoughts of water to make the tiny quantities of saliva he can still produce feel like a flowing gorge.

The sun was returning, marching over the horizon.

He saw a scorpion, waiting.

Pollock may not be doomed.

He looks again, at the small part of the scorpion visible above the dune.

This needs to be distinguished to 'Pollock thought', because he isn't doing that, what was working was the same impulse that had kept him walking for two days.

He dives and attempts to grab, and rip apart the insect, he will eat, he will eat, he will eat.

He does grab it, and it stings, and stings again, and he tears it in half.

His teeth tear into sand-littered carapace, and liquid pours down his throat for the first time in 36 hours. It tastes sweet, and the grains of sand falling down his gullet are ignored, almost, it smells of medicine.

His hands already look wrong, two pooling discolourations eminate from his wounds, Pollock does not care, his tongue is pierced by a poorly chewed stinger.

The Sun returned to its assault in earnest.

The headache, at this point, was constant, but the return of the hated sun exacerbated it.

Pollock grunted.

There are birds above him, carrion eaters, around 12 hours ago, when his mind was more present, he'd laid down in an imitation of death, thinking he could grab one and eat it.

It hadn't worked.

Pollock's head had felt like a creature with a hammer had been thrashing inside, attempting to break the bars of his skull for around 6 hours, the return of the hated sun made it worse.

He continued his march, over particularly large dune.

He's been starting to keep his face away from the light, starting down at the endless legions of sand grains, but he risks the look.

More dunes, more sand.

He stops for a moment.

He then places one foot in front of the other, he does this for around five steps, before his right foot slips, and gravity brings him to the base.

Sand is in his mouth now, and the scorching pain of the sunburn has been whipped up once more, he grimaces.

His eyes are set on his hand now, and already the rot has grown.

Above him, the birds ready themselves, and the merciless star.

37 - Pollock.