The lost man screams at the wall of no names all night long, then at sunrise blends in soundlessly with the anonymous bricks. Sun brings out the morning wall worshippers, dressed in black robes, to kiss random bricks, while every fourth one drops to their knees and bashes their heads against the wall until the front of their skulls are thoroughly caved in, dropping like charcoal ash figures into the bloody dust then melting into black oily pools. Each morning, for thousands of years, this ritual has played out, losing one out of every four– and it will go on apparently, until there are only four left. With each cycle there is one lost man among millions of acolytes that screams at the wall, then each one fuses with the wall at sunrise.
The lost man, with eyes of iron will, watches the great looming shadows on the horizon, watches them fast progressing across the plain, for what is coming will surely raze this wall of no names, of no known origin, erected well beyond recollected time. Great clouds of sun-tinged dust, and flaming shadows race across the sun-scorched desolate plain. The remaining four wall worshippers seem to take no notice, but all have begun to bash heads against their beloved wall, if only now to save them from some more sinister fate. Bits of bloody hairy scalp drop off the wall, clods of macabre mud. As useless now as mud.
The last lost man waits with the dull intensity of brick for the sun’s black purge. Which will surely come.