Shifting sands.

The sun is high and the air is hot, and the sands of time just pass me by. I try to hold them, each grain a memory, each memory a treasure, yet more come and pile up and fill my mind and now are escaping, slipping out of my grasp. And still more come, and engulf me. I am surrounded by a yellow mountain of motes of sand, each more minute than the other. And the wind blows and I loose some, and longingly I start to find them again. Yet they are no where to be found. A new dune rises before me, engulfs me and turns me to motes of sand, itself to be lost by other forgetful dreamers, who will also fall to this tragic fate. And in the end, time itself will sift the sands, and below it all find its ancient bed. It will rest its ageless body and sleep, gifting Morpheas, the Sandman, the memory dust he has grounded us into.