There was a saying somewhere about sand being coarse and generally uncomfortable. Picard said that, didn’t he? The desert is unending; that’s the worst part I think, rather than the material itself. Other people complain about the heat; Jane does. She’d moan that the sand’s not level. Or they complain about the lack of scenery. Again, Jane. We’ve been walking for six hours and fourteen minutes. It’s sweaty-hot. Tonight will be cold, and I’m so thirsty I could drain my water ration in one gulp. The worst part, aside from Jane, is that the place we’re headed to is called Trallala. Maybe I’ve had too long to get sour about this, but a tiny town in the middle of a horrible wasteland, and it’s got a happy name? Honestly, it needs renaming. I’ll get Jane to choose; she’s sufficiently immersed in misery. This morning I ate bacon for breakfast, with eggs, hash browns, and a single sausage; I didn’t want to ruin my appetite for lunch. I’ve been told to manifest more. I’m manifesting breakfast because the half-protein bar sucked. I tried manifesting Jane away; about as much luck as the breakfast. We’ll get there though. Trallala. Jane doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to try selling her shoes so she can’t continue.