cicada

After my first entreduction I began calling myself cicada.
I was a ghost. I drifted through space, accessing mental channels as casually and powerfully as the ringing of the dessert buzz. My body vibrated with such attack; my sound resonated deeply, filling what had once been the barren abyss of our new unsettled land.
I am the unseen enemy of casual passers-by. At the foot of my drilling buzz I have caused the collapse of stoic, resilient men, condemning themselves and their loved ones. I am torturous, buzzing, buzzing; I am above you, in the mesquite, haunting, present-yet-faceless. The sun beats us all down, abusing this world with its friendly glow, but the sun only burns your skin, singes your hairs and drys your eyes; I penetrate deep, I massage the folds of your brain with rapid pulsating vibration and electricity until your burning skin becomes your only comfort.
Try to cry in the desert and you'll waste your precious fluids.