The Southwest Burns

Out here, nothing rots — it dries. The sun doesn’t hide monsters. It bleaches their bones and leaves them for the wind to whisper through. Shadows don’t creep. They wait until you blink.

The Southwest is full of things that never quite died. Folklore walks upright. Legends leave claw marks. If something screeches across the mesa at midnight, don’t look up — it might remember you.

Stay on the road. And don’t follow hoofprints.