All we knew was the line. Constant consistent walking, forward forever. We were born in it, and never left it. But he was dead and everyone just kept going. An endless march of unrelenting footfalls sliding into place one after the other, keeping the burning sands uniform and changeless. It was so goddamned final, the sentence that the rest of us had to carry out. He was dead and we were not, doomed to continue on forever. We could not falter, why had he? Ceasless marching until we, too, fell into our bodies and met with a different kind of eternity--resurrection, renaissance, a nascent burgeoning thought that we had been here before. What we were marching to no one knew. Why we had started no one knew. All we knew was the line.
