otherworldly & threatening

Midas knows. He knows what exhaustion does to him. He knows the risks that he takes, being this incredibly tired with his condition hanging over his head. Fuck if he was going to let that stop him from at least finding somewhere fucking safe. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. He could have laughed, but it wasn't funny. Something about that Alanis Morissette song and the things that are mostly-not-even ironic should kick in here. No, focus, fucking animal. Right. Safety. Sleep. Where the fuck was he supposed to find shelter in this weird ass wasteland? Kicking idly at the red dirt, at least Midas could seek refuge in the sad, scruffy trees.

Or something like that. He can feel the dirt as it crushes beneath his paws, crumbly as it is. It was fucking wimdy, and had been for weeks now. Fuck. Midas was fucking tired. All he needed to do was find a spot that was at least covered on a couple sides... he hoped. Midas hoped so hard man. Even giving a little whimper to himself, he could feel the wind picking up at his back. Not again. Could his luck get any worse? Surely not. Surely fucking not right?