Dear People Who Don't Crack Their Knuckles

The sky is draped in orange and purple, and the warm, desert wind wraps around you like the promise of a thousand tomorrows. The air is electrifying in its stillness, tinged with charcoal and the sense of forgotten dreams, and for just a moment you start to see it all for what it really is. You take a pull of something strong because maybe you don't want to see it that clearly, but as you tilt your head back something catches your eye. A slip of paper flaps wildly, fighting against the streng...