under walls as wide as wind, as tall as time, a s[t]inging storm surpasses the old sense of what we call sublime. a landslide leads unravelanche down into maelstromouth, its cataract[ion] cacophonous from summit to center, from native north to savage south.
another ocean’s swells are seeming somnolent and slow, languorous in leisure—but wise ones know, there is a behemoth beneath: a coyly covered carnivore constrained with cloaks of equine femininity and feline equanimity, a paragon of primal power wedded with a patient pleasure.
we shield ourselves with sheets of glass, confuse quiet with speechless and excuse with explain. but sand is not silent. each particle articulates the song of sea and word of wind. why else would the dream-king craft his creatures from its grains? he needs sub[consciou]stances no mere reason can rescind.
and though sand is never silent, neither hourglass nor dune, it tells its truths to no one, neither man, nor mound, nor moon.