Dust storm finally engulfed the powdering bones of Kraz. Dried up flesh of vultures which greedily fought for his flesh months back tried hard to beat the wind from blowing them away. The desert was a curiously efficient machinery that creepily reduced everything to dust. First it was his hopes, then his dreams, then it was his will and finally through a hundred corporeal and incorporeal aspects that shaped and described the entity that once existed by the name of Kraz Arkin, it was his bones. As the white powder went up the air mixing with a trillion grains of beige, yellow, orange, red and brown, Kraz was reduced to the myth of a legendary blogger whose tale grannies told wide-eyed kids who’d later have nightmares about dust storms and vultures.
Either the asshole Kraz will resume blogging or I’ll keep posting more nonsense about his end.