Nomad turns the head. Your eyes on the verge of exhaustion ache me, your lips, trembling for every particle of dust that has to, unfortunately has to extinct, they hurt me. I severely feel your fear when you stubbornly don't say what is endavouring your head. The pane that does not exist forbids the breaths and the liquids to penetrate, the words are barely heard, though, very close, fortunately they are not twisted by the wind. You'll never make out the reason for which one death is better than the other, never getting to know whether it is better to hurt yourself or the whole rest.
Turns the head, to let not the eyelashes scratch deeper. Nomad cannot do much more. You know that tale- this is the way one dies again. Not with a bang but a whimper.