͢There is always something left behind; something to return to.

The lonesome scuff of boots in the desert struggles with the competing noise of a howling wind; a tempest that chases away loose sand, only to leave it lying in front of two blurry figures. Heat waves dance on the horizon and rise in fury against the dreaded sun. In the midst of the wasteland a hand wavers, grabbing an olive-green canteen. It is held to a parched mouth and starts to empty its contents. Water spills down a face eager to take more than it can hold. Time comes to a halt and a pair of footsteps is wiped away. One of the figures, a pilot, comes into focus as he stumbles to the ground.

His desperate hand reaches for the ground and picks up a fist-full of gritty sand. It burns even through his leather glove. The pilot watches aimlessly through his tinted flying goggles, as the grains sift through his fingers and into the wind. The tiny granules collect themselves like sweat along the edges of his worn leather pilot's helmet, rugged clothing, and his rolled up arm sleeve exposing a tattoo that says Dominion. The pilot’s head turns, his chin strap dangling, while airborne grains cause stinging on his bare cheeks. His long scarf whips in the wind with repeated noises, gently urging him to get back on his feet. He fixes his goggles. Everything in front of him was just as he hoped.

Indented roofs bang without rhythm against the rusted walls of abandoned shacks. Homes lie buried in sand next to tall towers and crooked metal staircases. It was obvious the place was impoverished, being on the outskirts of a once flourishing city. Before the pilot can take another step closer, a hissing voice stops him.

“Fool! You can't even get to it!”

Sunlight gleams off the pilot's goggle-lenses and pricks the distance with its blinding light. The reflection grows with his matching smile; an uncontrollable smile of satisfaction that burns across his face like a wildfire.

“Now what will you do?” scoffs the voice.

“They call me strange, a pilot known as Dominion.” The pilot tilts his head back and takes the last few drops of remaining water. Apathy takes control of him and his leather glove smears water and perspiration around the edges of his mouth.

“It's time to head back, you think?”

“All that wandering and you simply wish to turn around?!” hisses the voice.

The pilot stares blindly across the open desert at the remains of a ghost city. The inhabitants were long gone, leaving behind the carcasses of their ancient pride. It was once their home, and now just something to return to.

“I was born here. The possessor priesthood made me what I am. They've taken everything from me, but now I'll find it; my picture and a chance to bring The Far Away Dream to life!”

“The dream is over! You don't even have enough souls”

“Watch me!”

“You're a fool! A failed experiment! You're just a pilot! A...”

A brief moment of anger overcomes the pilot and fades with the hissing sands.

Suddenly, the second figure vanishes, as if it started as a mirage and faded with the invading sandstorm. The pilot turns himself around, letting his scarf chastise the desert wind around him. He clenches his fists taking in the wonderful heat, as it fills him with insanity. His olive-green canteen hits the sand, leaving its imprint on the granules. His boots plow through the desert as the he heads back in the direction he came from.

“This life is the gritty sand between my fingers… ”