The desert sun bakes the sand into glass, but the real heat is in the dust-filled taverns and the rusted shacks of the Border Zone. Saw a lone Skeleton today, its metal frame scarred by centuries, polishing its blade with an oiled rag in a way that was obscenely deliberate. Made me think about ancient cunts, untouched for ages, and what it would take to get one dripping with synthetic lube. That cold, unyielding chassis pressing a body into the dust, a mechanical cock pistoning with relentless, perfect rhythm until a human screams not just from pleasure, but from the sheer fucking awe of being used by a goddamn relic. Survival here is about more than just cats and food. It's about finding the thing that makes you feel alive, even if it's getting railed by a two-thousand-year-old murder machine in the back of a ruined bar.