The FuguistJonah hated Mars. He hated everything about it. Every minute he spent there he was plagued by a vague feeling of unrest: Mars was not quite foreign, not quite familiar, an endless mirage or coma dream. Maybe he was dead, and maybe this was purgatory. Sometimes he considered praying at night, asking for forgiveness, just in case, for whatever sin might have banished him there, but then he looked out over the barren, forsaken wasteland and thought his time was much better spent sleeping, or walking.More Like This
But he hated how soft the ground was, how little clouds of dust exploded under his soles with every step, and how he could turn around and see his straight, months'-long trail of footsteps stretching out behind him, since there were no winds to erase that lonely path. He hated the air, which was so thin that no one breath was ever enough and so full of dust that he thought his throat and tongue and teeth were coated with the red powder.
He hated the sky, which hung too low overhead, ripe with