Having stalked off into the dense jungles the brooding figure casts his gaze about, his eyes taking in what his other senses have already revealed to him; he is in no danger and nothing of this place can do him any harm. He hears roars, resounding from the distance and they cause him no alarm, he hears hissing in his ear and it poses him no threat; but the echoing refrain in his mind threatens to bring him to his knees. He crashes beneath an expansive teak wood tree, draws his knees to his chest and listens to the night sounds of the Sudan; listens to the sounds of the Sudan as he cries to himself in his slumber. The ground smokes and smolders where his tears fall as if being seared by a powerful corrosive.



Since his arrival to this place, he has done nothing but slept; and his slumber has been a long restless one. His mind enjoys no reprieve and his body knows no rest, for his slumber is fitful and his dreams are violent and very much a form of reality. In his dreams the images are not him, but he physically feels every affliction that is endured. (See The Seven Dreams of MaxXwell...coming soon)... Time passes and he dreams on his body is racked with spasms as his mind endures various onslaughts during his unconsciousness, at some point his elbow lashes out and strikes the tree under which he slumbers, and the tree splits from its roots through its branches; still the figure sleeps on.



The track of time is lost, and the being reclined upon the devastated plain stirs. Rotten trunks and vast barren stretches surround the figure, great clouds of dust plume into the air as he jerks himself into a sitting position. The ground beneath where his head had lain sports twin chasms, each deep enough to hide the entire form of a man and both disappearing into the distance further than the eye can see. "Thirst", the first thought that occurs to him as he gathers himself and springs forth from his sitting position, the popping in his joints sounding like cracks of lightening as they protest the call upon their flexing. His form on autopilot just as much as it was during his slumber, drives itself forward with primordial urges. Unbeknown st to him, he runs, he crawls, he slithers, he flies; and he finally reaches his destination. The small lake before him is tranquil, the lakes waters are cool; he drops to one knee with his eyes constantly roving his surroundings and drinks the lake dry.



"Hunger", penetrates his thoughts and his mind falls upon it as if it were religion. Throwing his head back, he flares his nostrils, sampling and tasting all the scents on the breeze; he finds one. Locking the scent in, he launches himself in the direction towards it. He comes upon a large herd of water Buffalo, at least one hundred in their number, this is the scent that he has tracked; he sets on them. He allows the three remaining water to buffalo walk off into the distance, the young male and young female walking closely upon the heels of the elder female. The elder female sports great raged scars upon her pelt, as if her time upon this plane of existence has been marked out for her to teach the young lings what she could in the time she had left. He watches them depart, and he feels momentarily ashamed.



Another urge, this one deeper and stronger than the other two. He feels its pull and is helpless to resist, "She", is the last thought that he has before once again he bounds off into the distance on yet another hunt, for what; his past and future will tell.