Somewhere in a vast desert, there was a wanderer. They wandered across the sands for days and days. The wanderer did this for no clear reason at all; they had simply appeared in the desert and began to walk.
The desert was forever trapped in daytime, warmed by a constant, gentle heat. There was nothing within it—only an endless stretch of yellow and orange reaching toward the far horizon. Nothing existed beside the wanderer. They did not know how much time had passed, nor how far they had traveled. In a place like this, the concept of time could not truly apply.
They carried nothing with them, yet they felt no hunger and no thirst. Deprived of the things needed to survive, they still lived as if such needs had never existed. The wanderer continued onward despite not knowing any direction, moving simply because moving was all they could do. No matter how far they went, everything remained exactly the same.
Perhaps they believed that the desert must eventually end, or that somewhere ahead there would be a reason for their presence. And so they kept going. They did not feel tired. They did not feel pain. In truth, they felt nothing at all.
Sometimes they walked. At other times, they ran beneath the burning sun and over the shifting sand beneath their feet. Nothing ever happened. The desert remained empty and silent, repeating itself again and again. The sky held few clouds, and a vast sun hung above, shining over the entire land.
Still, the wanderer moved endlessly. They never stopped—only their pace changed, slowing at times, quickening at others.
Then, at last, the wanderer saw what appeared to be the end of the desert: a distant border. They ran as fast as they could toward it. When they crossed it, the endless day vanished and was replaced by night. A great moon hung above their head, pale and silent, and gentle winds passed through them.
And so, they continued to walk through the desert once more—only now, without the bright light of the sun.