Ghost Under Snow

The desert is now part of my existence, but the stillness is only fleeting: I already know my ghosts will rise again; I can feel them writhing beneath the snow. One day I will be forced to look at what the white surface hides; I will have to face the cold cry of the specters. On that day, I fear, only the desert will be able to save my damned soul. For now I, too, am one of the aimless dead, forgotten and without memory; a sleeper without peace, hidden without shelter. I, too, feel the cold frost of oblivion scratching at my skin; I understand the pain and the resentment: I remember nothing of my past life, yet no one has come looking for me; perhaps no one misses me. And yet emptiness does not exist; there is always something, even when it is missing.

— Ade