Summary:

There is no sound that omits from private decay. Not even the Spanish prayers that often sing hope for the Sonoran Desert can reach his deaf ears, not at this stage. It is too late. He is crouching beside the flat of the chapped sand and his long, knotted digits itch the crook of his arm where track marks are shaped like fingerprints and add exquisite color to the eyes of purple and green tattooed monsters. He can feel his swollen and broken veins. They yearn to be touched by the prick of a spinning wheel. His lips tremble. Tears form in the pits of his almond shaped eyes and he encourages them, letting them drool over his sharp cheekbones and he carefully lifts a trembling finger to absorb the tear and kisses it with his tongue. Those goddamn narcotic fiends thought he might last a week here in the sewers of hell. He assured them that they were wrong.