Sufi Sam Sits Smiling and Says "Words With Wanton Wavering Wollops!"

"And 'lo", he said, "and behold", he blabbered. He sat crosslegged on the the desert sand, mummified sufi sultan sioux surething, "and there cometh", he mumbled. Staring off into what can be, prozaically, called the distance. "I sit on the sand, and yet the sand sits on me. Perplexing." he groaned, seemingly miffed at his own enunciations, slightly angry, disgusted. And with a hint of sadness. As always.

- - - -

When suddenly a fish breaks the surface, tingling sparks of sunlight scatter, shimmer, gone. The surface healed, restored to mercury smoothness, deep blue maybe green sometimes grey always silver, the smell is a sumptious laden submerged wallowing tinted with sweet ochre sun stained lethargia.

- - - -

Casually crushing lumpy sand under coarse boots making his way across that garden without grass. Behind him, leaving after behind not to return or really?, the grey minaret in concrete substance bare(-ly) emphasized in these surroundings as a token of needle-prick pin-pointed longing. Before him ahead coming destination or really? looms the cardboard box, torn withered wet paper weariness without wonder, waiting.

- - - -

Trembling tiny branch. Inverted footsteps imprinted in soft soil. Receding echo of hoofsteps over cobblestone. Soft sigh fading from now into never. Single piece of luggage on belt circling. Woosh of vacuum born. Soft thud of metal door. Silence preceding white flash.

Sufi Sam Stands Singing Sorrowful Songs Saying "Gone Goose-bumps Gushing Gash Gutteral!"