Oasis on the horizon feels pellucid in the mind. Hope is that cooling shade will be there to find.
Mirages are notorious for turning prize in hand to no more than grains of sand.
Trees bearing sweet fruit would graciously please; rotted wood, though, might turn self myrmecophagous on knees.
Surviving hours and illusions under the sun requires, perhaps, moving not forward, but backward, until retro-infinity passes a corner of comfort known before the journey was even begun. ; )