Akhenaten travels the desert. There is silence with the exception of the soft shushing of his bare feet on the sand. He looks up and the moon hangs heavily and gracefully on a silken sky, its pale face keeping a calm and benevolent eye. He feels the pirckle of heat on his back, and as Akhenaten turns he is greeted by the scorching heat of the sun blazing fast. He feels his skin warm in the generous light that gives life.



Peace is here, the world as it is seen hanging between night and day. Balance. The impatient, irritable energy that runs him releases its hold and he can breathe as he walks through the endless wilderness.



At the same time, there is a tearing sound and the sky is torn apart. Gone are the tranquil moon and the fierce sun and there is only darkness. Darkness and the grating sound of nails against a stone, a knife on bone.Akhenaten feels the heat of a flame and raises his hands to his face to find it slippery with oil. It is his own hand that lit the torch, and as the fire consumes him, his nails rake his skin. It tears as easily as the sky.



The jarring, screeching sound is a flame to his mind as his body burns. It hurts. You have invited your chaos here.One thought that he can hold on to as the world is turning white with pain.