I, the stray dog of the desert, who sloped long and pale, slashed to ribbons, across the moonlight sands on my journey to God.
Death could come to Roy on his time. Appointment first. Lunch, maybe.
Occasionally, after a bad sand storm, a bone would work its way up to the surface; bare and bleached, like the sticks he used to pretend were swords.
The chi flows in its circuits through the body, just as blood pulses through the veins.
Surrounded by foes, he passed through them unseen, unheard, unmarked — one more gray ghost among the damned.