No Memory

In the desert of salt, one large, blistering sore swells, red and hot, an ugly interruption of an otherwise intensely white monotony. Periodically, the underground pressures seep through some hidden fault beneath the infinitude of those white crystals, and gurgling, bubbling, breaks forth into the harsh light of the sun. But the winds and meandering dunes cover the mark: no memory is left, neither upon the land nor upon any mind. Nothing could live in that world of salt, that world of burning salt. At times, through various ways, creatures will fall into this place, suddenly, without passing any boarder. Under that ever-stretching plain of white salt, their dehydrated bodies are also hidden, and no memory is left of them. No soul has ever known.

And when it is all covered, it is nothing but white, ceaseless white, a desert of salt.