Them skies get so good purple and make me laugh again. I watch my hands move for the so long time like finger dance and bend some light. All them empty sands reach out like grab at some far thing and I sit in the middle and go boom boom. Some yesterday folks visit my think it I knew them before I left. Maybe they are not want me around now. Or maybe they dead or gone away some where I don’t know. Maybe every thing is temporary like some paint runs in the rain. I am go home soon see what is left but got one stop to make first. I pour sand through my fingers and each grit has the feel of a story. Every thing is a hundred puzzles.
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