It's hard keeping track of anything anymore. If he'd ever known how to keep track, and really The Photojournalist couldn't say. He knows he's a (he thinks is a?) photojournalist, or he was, or he wanted to have been. He knows he's had the bandana around his head for a while. He knows there's someone very important somewhere around and somehow he'd wandered away from that very important person (or had he run off? why would he have done that?) and he has to find Kurtz as soon as possible even if the name spells trouble down his spine, even if he feels a little nauseous a little grateful a little awful just to think the name. He knows he's somewhere in the desert, though he's pretty sure he's never been to this part of the desert before and he's definitely certain that he has no idea how he got here in the first place.

The Photojournalist sits down by the cactus to think it out. Maybe his memory trouble's caused by something. Probably comes from um. Walking around in the sun too much or maybe not getting enough water. He's never been good at staying hydrated. Maybe he's been smoking too much? ...Nah, that can't be possible. It's probably the water thing. Man, he's got to drink more water. But where's he supposed to get that now?

He's looking around when he sees someone, a somewhat small someone. Can he approach the somehow? He stands, takes a few cautious steps toward the figure. "Hey, uh... Good morning?"