nellie relic

Feel your hair, your clothes, bend to the breeze - just as the crops around you do. You are the meridian wraith, and to the workers only your scythe is visible above the golden sea which dances at your feet. Look north, past the watermill and all signs of honest industry, to the metal city in the clouds. Turn away, and cast your eyes back to the expanse of worked fields, patchwork ochres punctuated by the odd beech tree. You remain watchful.

Heat visibly radiates from the sandstone blocks compiling the greatest of the old temples. It is so hot that colour has stopped functioning as expected, and your eyes register acid greens and electric oranges that your rational brain understands cannot really be there. Breathing in the temperatures surrounding you has become an act of endurance, but there’s still a long trek down the fractious path before you reach any sort of shade or shelter. And yet you marvel at the lush growths visible in the cracks between those ancient blocks - blossoms trailing down the temple’s mighty walls - and steel yourself for the journey ahead.