Crushed by thirst, he wandered far and wide to cool his soul. But he had not found a single drop of water. Neither to the left, nor to the right, further down or further up the hill. He could die at any moment, killed by the great sun, with no escape. His lips were crushed by the madness-away, fallen in parts, uncared and cracked. Physically, he had long since melted away, riding the Mirage, sweating, dragging his empty canister and faded dreams behind him...
He was flapping slowly, trying not to swallow his swollen and red tongue, as good-looking as a gourd - on the verge of picking. He stopped and sat down for a minute to catch his breath. He was thinking. Fountains and floods, many beautiful waters. Sweet, with a taste of peaches, or maybe lemon. Irrigation, wet and artesian, all burned his colourless blood and made it dilute, as if on cue. Stunned and surprised, shocked and confused, he started again towards the unknown target. But his delirium continued, brought from behind, he thinned out, seeing with his eyes the welcoming mist of the sand heated by the wind. The dark light was glimmering toward the horizon, but alas! the torrid still burned from nowhere to everywhere. It was late and he didn't think he was going to get out of this mess. He was sad and hopeless, dizzy with the life that was slowly leaving his body, like an endless torment and an eternal pain. He hated the heat and the sand, as well as himself. He breathes heavily and is careful not to drown and prays that it will end and that he will not suffer anymore. And then the miracle happens. One that appears every thousand years. In the green moment of despair, they appeared. Big, tall, heavy and carried on his back, the good and hunched clouds. The sky darkened and it started simply, as in some rain. And Vlad fell on his back, tired and happy, falling asleep.
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