The Perpetual Tail 1

   Amit sat up in the darkness swiftly, grabbing for paper and pencil near by in lethargic urgency. It had been eight days since he had last heard the train. In the dead of night, he could clearly hear the vicious rumbling of tracks. Writing utensil in hand, he scribbled a heavy arrow onto the paper and set it down on the far side of the tent, pointing in the direction he heard the noise coming from. Then Amit fell back heavily, as the train's taunting bellow blanketed the sky. As the sound of the train faded, Amit fell back into sleep.
   He dreamt of running through an endless desert, chasing fading figures. The sky a reflection of his desert. An endless mass of sand, whirlpooling above his head before crashing down like a tornado made of sandpaper. Less of a dream, and more of a  recollection really. For months now, Amit had been walking the desert. Of which desert he did not know. Nor how he had come to this place. Who he was, or what he was doing. All lost to him. All he knew, was his name, and the mirages painting the landscape like memories smiling through dirty windows.  
   He had with him a brown tent, a comfortable sleeping bag, and a small green pack slung over his shoulder. Inside was a worn journal and a sterile canteen, that always seemed to refill itself when he awoke each day. The journal was even more puzzling then the canteen. It was about 9 inches by length, 5 inches wide, 3 inches thick. Weighed maybe 3 pounds. Had a soft, used looking brown cover. The fragile pages were an off tan color. When Amit had first pulled the journal from the sack, he began to flip through it. The first couple hundred pages were filled with detailed sketches of various things. Buildings, plants, hills, cars, tables, lamps, towels, glasses, etc.
   The last page of sketches was completely jet black. When he turned to it, Amit felt as if his breath had been drawn into it, and a slight chill crawled up his back. He turned the page away slowly, revealing the first blank page. Amit continued flipping through the pages one by one, searching for anything that might explain what was happening. He began to turn the pages faster and faster, pushing the pages in with his thumb to make them spill over quickly. As he turned through thousands of pages, the thickness of the book never seemed to diminish. He held the journal sideways, allowing the pages to fall over towards the cover. Still, the pages continued to cascade endlessly. Amit frowned, breathing heavily. He threw the book down onto the sand and stood back, running his hands over his face and through his dark hair.
   For hours he paced back and forth alone, glancing at the journal swiftly every once in awhile. As the warm sun began to fall over the horizon, Amit gathered his self and set up the tent. That night, he wrote the first entry in the journal:

   "?/1"

   "I know my name. I know my body, my voice, even my clothes. I know this is one of my favorite shirts, because it's maroon. Which is my favorite color. I do not know this place. I do not know how I got here. I just was here. I just, am here. I did not wake up in this place, I did not travel here. I, am here."

   Amit closed the journal, and lay down inside the sleeping bag. The soft wind pet his tent in foreign assurance. He sighed heavily, and fell asleep slowly, his nervousness comforted by exhaustion.