The dry air is hot, sucking the moisture out of every living and deceased creature. Even the non-life has no reprieve from the tyrannical looting of the sun. The many shattered pieces of rock that make up the expanse of dunes are never going to become whole again, even if they were to become glass by way of inferno. The sand would still be veneer and transparent, fickle and forgotten.
Across the unforgiving, battered sand there are remnants of those before us that were stripped of their life and bleached to an unassuming white. One day it it will also be debased by loss of it's distinct form and be assimilated with the landscape. Already so many of our ancestors have disappeared in the sand.
Only those who conduct themselves as parasitic to others will survive. Only when the weak fail will he perish before his time. Those whom trek across this land must ravage the constantly changing expanses of dunes. Each day it is different and each day it is out to win survival at someone's else's expense.
And though there may be a paradise far away from sight, those who survive will only be worse for the wear when they reach their prize. For there is death here so that there may be lavish life elsewhere.