Open spaces, Jonny Greenwood. The desert murderer.

The sky is infinite blue. Clouds are there only to round off the mockery of everything that is outside whenever a whitish trace can be seen up high, almost as if it was out the atmosphere. Heat is not longer an issue but the thirst. I know I have been walking around in circles. In fact, I don’t even know if I want to get somewhere. Perhaps oblivion. But, then, a sudden pleasure arises when I think of meat, better say flesh, being torn at a sharpless steel blade, guided by the power of my hand, my arm, all my muscles, my soul – if there is one.
A woman's perfect, young skin ripping into two reveals what is true, the only truth. The surprise is warmly received by a fountain of thick red liquid, as if the body had been separated from everything, and the only way to express itself was to produce some kind of fluid.
I, on the other hand, am absolutely dry, though I am still sweating, and with blood in my veins – I can feel it specially running inside my head, pounding, hammering the sides of my forehead. It seems I have gained some kind of power which drifts me apart from all human need, yet the thirst pricks me up from the back of my head, and I am to answer the impulse to create a source to quench my craving.
Now, I will turn into dry, red sand, and will be blown away like a scab which wouldn't heal, dry and thirsty, like the desert which conceals in the open all the urges no one will confess.