On again， trot and walk and trot， jingle.jingle.jingle， squeak.squeak.squeak， smell of hot horse， smell of hot self， blinding glare， headache. And nothing at all different for mile after mile. Tashbaan would never look any further away. The mountains would never look any nearer. You felt this had been going on for always.jingle.jingle.jingle， squeak.squeak.squeak， smell of hot horse， smell of hot self.
Of course one tried all sorts of games with oneself to try to make the time pass： and of course they were all no good. And one tried very hard not to think of drinks.iced sherbet in a palace in Tashbaan， clear spring water tinkling with a dark earthy sound， cold， smooth milk just creamy enough and not too creamy.and the harder you tried not to think， the more you thought.
