It is not stardust that gets in our eyes all these years
later, but grains of sand, the hour glass, broken, the storm slowly fading
away, not yet letting us see a clear view of the past, yet not so blinded as we
once were, more a dreamscape of what we once thought as possible, lost in a
rage of wind, so we are left with the remnants of the dream, shredded rays
still clinging to us after we trudged so far and for so long with the rage of
sand set against us, able by luck or fate to have avoided the pitfalls and quicksand
we once believes would consume us.
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