Sometimes it feels as if you're forced to run through quicksand, it's deeply quickly tiring, quicker than it takes sand to fall out of your hands, unpleasant enough to have you second guess going to the beach allowing sand to run between your toes, it's resistance in it's most blatant form, more obvious than a smack to the face, more abrasive than the sandpaper like tough skin I drowned in tattoos that signaled tolerance and triumph over the toughest people I ever knew, but I slept on the Sandman and now I must somewhat not panic to this unfamiliar face in the face of this probably being my worst nightmare; them tattoos ain't **** for him to dispose of; I might be rich as the soil, able to house and produce much fruit from my works and be able to maintain it, but the sand wants a piece of it too and will devour it whole and be poor again fore the sand even reaches the bottom of this hourglass; time will tell how I respond.