Forest

Two figures walk steadily across a shimmering sand.  The first is slightly shorter, walking with the jaunty grace of the young and strong.  The second, though taller, moves with steady, inexorable precision; obviously the senior of the pair but showing no weakness or frailty that could betray his age.  1

They travel through a forest of giant wine bottles and dead pigs.  The mid-afternoon sun glints and sparks off the bottles, filled to different capacities with good, red wine.  Despite the desert heat, the carcasses don't stink and there are no maggots or carrion, though the eyes are partially melted and the spines and ribs begin to show through the shrunken hide.  Long, twisted shadows are thrown but nothing itself is overcast.  2

The only things moving in the forest are the two silhouettes, the elder now walking with his hands clasped behind him.  Although nothing is heard except the murmur of the wind and its hollow whistling over the tops of the bottles, the figures are speaking with long-acquainted ease; heads bent, bodies turned slightly towards each other.  But though they seem familiar, they are making a conscious effort not to touch, as if the action would have precarious consequences for both parties.  There is an unease in their body language, an unwillingness of manner that betrays itself while they speak.  3

The sky is a clean, clear blue; a few wisps of cloud only enhancing the vibrancy of the color.   The figures stop, suddenly.  The elder looks up and the air smells of ozone, sharp and electric.  This is unsurprising.  The old man sighs and the young man looks up and smiles mirthlessly at him. 4