The wilderness of Kekexili exudes an eternal loneliness.
The sky is oppressively low, the clouds pale as ice sculptures, with the sun's edge blurred into a haze like frosted glass.
As the permafrost briefly melts at noon, it oozes patches of green on the tundra, soon solidified again into an iron-blue by the minus-thirty temperature.
The howling wind is the only constant sound in this deserted land.
The silhouettes of the original sheep herd drift at the horizon's edge, the dust clouds raised by their run granting this uninhabited zone a hint of vitality.
A small grayish-white figure moves slowly through the grass by the lake.
The frigid air makes it sneeze involuntarily, its empty stomach reflecting the plight of three days with meager food.
The temperature has dropped recently, the climate far too cold. The prey it barely caught four days ago is now completely depleted.
It cannot starve any longer; otherwise, there wouldn't be enough energy to hunt.
