Instead of looking up- they look down at color of ankles, skin and stubbly hair, temptation yet hate drive to rub skin of ankle, until they skin the ankle…? But now, it is not rub, it is Indian burn, we yearn for something else. She looked up too much so she tripped over the rock and apologized to it; skin fried to blend in with trees and honey. For suffocating in the gas of stupid senseless song, untuned, no moon shines above them. On this journey, the dry year sealed her face locked, pigment and color labelled sand until she reached home, no one found care, like waves on desert does not begin until dim dark world is Ending.