"I am lost and alone, my mind scattered, my body broken... I'm 22 years old, and the red sand of the desert bellow me is beginning to stick to my back, as the cold sweat from the fever that has been my constant companion for the past week pools... Beside me lies my rucksack, containing all of my worldly possessions. It's a simple green canvas backpack, dark brown leather straps. I don't need much anymore, not out here, not on my own. So all it contains is two flannel shirts, 3 pairs of boxer shorts, 4 odd socks, a small survival pack (housed in an ancient cigar box) and 4 books, well read, Along with some food and a large canvas sheet and a sleeping bag, my shelter. On my person, I have the clothes I stand up (or in this sorry case, lay down in) a small leather wallet containing a few dollars in change, and a photo of a girl I knew long a go, and my knife, with a blade about 4 inches long, serrated the final inch. And that is me, all that I am, all that I have. I'm staring up at the sky above me, watching the birds sore, knowing that soon they will begin to circle, because they know, as well as I do, that the end is nye... I passed out, minutes could have passed? Hours? I could not be sure. The sun is still besting down, the birds I was following with my eyes, now a memory. Gone but not forgotten. Rolling over on to my stomach, I could see the road ahead, slightly raised, a black ribbon across the arid red wasteland that surrounded me. It could not have been half a mile away, but every muscle in my body ached at the thought of it. I needed to get there, that road meant water, it meant food, ultimately it meant salvation. By this point, it had been two weeks since I had last seen another human being, three since I had interacted with anyone. My cross country oddessey been running for 6 months, and already it had changed me. I wish I had been more carful, I know that I could have lasted longer if I hadn't eaten that fucking bird, I knew it was cooked right, but still it could be the end of me. I'd prepared it right, just as I had been shown, maybe it wasn't cooked enough? After two days of sickness... I didn't care about the how or the why... I just needed to get out if this hell hole and back to strength, before I could get back on track, I had bigger fish to fry, as they say, bigger mountains to climb in my quest for the ultimate prize. That was my drive, that is what would get me out of the desert, back into the belly of the beast. Reaching out, without really thinking... I grabbed my bag, and pulled myself up onto it, wincing as my leg muscles flared in protest. In the heat of the midday sun, I got myself to my feet, put the bag over my shoulder and walked, one step at a time, toward the road. My skin was drum tight, where it was not cracked, after what was now 2 days without protection. The pain I was in had to be put aside, if I was going to survive this, I needed to focus on my goal, think of precious little else. Thanks to my time away from society, there was very little I cared for besides myself, and those I loved... No sports teams, no reality tv, no political vote rigging or religious genocide. Yes it was selfish, but I craved this emptiness in order to truly find myself. I was sick of the media fetishising celebrity, whitewashing political debate and dictating our wants and needs. Finally after staggering for what felt like hours, I felt the ground beneath me get smoother, and smoother, until I felt a lip, and the think blacktop sprawled ahead of me. A simple two way highway, with faded paint lines, and a pot whole that I could fit my head into. I was there, I had made it to the road. I felt a wave of euphoria as I realised that I was going to be okay, now it was simply a case of sitting, and waiting. Sure, it could take hours for a vehicle to pass, but it would come..."