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POLAROIDS // AZIZ ALFRAIH
Hunger.
It is the imperfection of all that is mortal; a limitation of every living thing; another one of the Reaper’s many scythes.
In a distant land of sand, a war had begun and ended. Villages burned, cities fallen, and corpses lay upon corpses. Food became scarce in this unyielding land of sand, so much that only the strong could live another day on a few crumbs, not enough to sate a bird. The weak? They perished long ago.
On a cloudy Ramadan night, in this very land of sand, walked a lone traveler. Baraho was his name. Tall of figure, brown of skin, with a full head of silver hair. Brave at heart, calm at mind, with an empty stomach.
