(no subject)
Sand.
Sands.
Sands is in sand. Sand is in Sands. There’s lots, and lots… of sand. Of Sands. More Sands here than he’d like, really.
The less said about the sand, the better.
Sands. Sand. The puns go on forever.
The sand goes on forever.
He isn’t quite sure, because he keeps losing count, but it sure as hell feels like his steps have been going on forever too. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know where he’s coming from. Hell, he doesn’t know where he is.
In a world full of desert, everything looks the same.
… six hundred and twenty two… six hundred and twenty three… six hundred and twenty four…
He always imagined his death would involve more bullets, and less… well. Sand. With any luck, he’ll tread on something poisonous before he starves to death. Which would be more painful? Would that be better, or worse?
Maybe when the sun goes down, he’ll freeze to death
Here’s a fun game: count the grains of Sands. Sand.
How many words can you make out of sand? An… and… sad…
… nad?
Fuck it.
… seven hundred and nine… seven hundred and eight… seven hundred and sev- no, wait…
When (if) gets out of this, he’s going to kill Dworkin. Creepy bearded fucker. With all those… unnerving powers. Isn’t he related to Random?
Well. Maybe just hit him a bit.
Perhaps just a strong word.
Somewhere along the way, Sands realises that he’s tilted sideways and up isn’t quite up anymore.
And then the ground hits him in the face, and he stops realising anything.
Sands.
Sands is in sand. Sand is in Sands. There’s lots, and lots… of sand. Of Sands. More Sands here than he’d like, really.
The less said about the sand, the better.
Sands. Sand. The puns go on forever.
The sand goes on forever.
He isn’t quite sure, because he keeps losing count, but it sure as hell feels like his steps have been going on forever too. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know where he’s coming from. Hell, he doesn’t know where he is.
In a world full of desert, everything looks the same.
… six hundred and twenty two… six hundred and twenty three… six hundred and twenty four…
He always imagined his death would involve more bullets, and less… well. Sand. With any luck, he’ll tread on something poisonous before he starves to death. Which would be more painful? Would that be better, or worse?
Maybe when the sun goes down, he’ll freeze to death
Here’s a fun game: count the grains of Sands. Sand.
How many words can you make out of sand? An… and… sad…
… nad?
Fuck it.
… seven hundred and nine… seven hundred and eight… seven hundred and sev- no, wait…
When (if) gets out of this, he’s going to kill Dworkin. Creepy bearded fucker. With all those… unnerving powers. Isn’t he related to Random?
Well. Maybe just hit him a bit.
Perhaps just a strong word.
Somewhere along the way, Sands realises that he’s tilted sideways and up isn’t quite up anymore.
And then the ground hits him in the face, and he stops realising anything.