The sweat descends into thirsty earth, to begin a line that will connect life to death. And above the crack, rolling body and eyes, dies a sasquatch, the last of their kind. In the heat of a desert, intolerable rays, the other side a mystery, the end of all days. But his salt seeps through, in liquid form, to purify for years, forty five billion born.
To maintain cohesion throughout all time, it shares itself with earth, body and mind. To give new breathe to those that loose theirs, be it for lack of provisions or dry desert air. And when the mythical beast has decayed away, to leave but a memory of him in the clay, a tree shall rise in the place where he stayed. With roots deep and branches flayed, the Persimmon tree, in climes transformed, will provide a meal for travellers estranged.