Insect song played by an ensemble of rattling wings, legs and mandibles fills the morning air, heavy with late Summer and reeking of Witch flower. A pair of lungs labor past a gully choked with Baal thorn and Scratch weed wearing a thin coat of red dust courtesy of the dirt road and its unerring spine of stiff, dry grass. Eyes burn with unrest and want. The thunder of insatiable appetites rumble inside guts. Boots thud into town. Everything is promised while the string is pulled from a sack of malignancy.