In a desert of carcasses and silence, shapes form in the sand. Triangular, oddly angled, reflecting shadows, the hills create illusion and fright.

No soul remains alive in the desert of carcasses and silence. Only the soft hiss of the sand grains sliding against each other, the remains mischievously morphing a new shape. An unnatural and mysterious force pushes the particles in the same direction with the aim to conquer the territory of nothing.

Amidst the chaotic constructions and the arrangement of bizarre structures, an inexplicable breathing pattern reigns. Similar to a beating heart, familiar and unapologetic, it tempers  an imperceptible melody at a lumbering, never ending tempo.

Ghostly figures sometimes suddenly arise and disappear the same way. The ones who never really die transition in the desert, borrowing  the macabre atmosphere to groan and sigh, before returning to Hell. And they will fall, wailing into the dismal abyss of earth where no one will rescue them.

Listen while reading: The Sound of Hate by Martin Phipps