Gravel and other small items with unpleasant surface textures became items that somehow confirmed my fading enthusiasm for vague and aimless statements in fruitless search of anything resembling a story line or even a reasonable excuse for anything true, and fun, and reasonable. I admit that nothing will soothe my soul. I admit that my life is a failure, if failure is a spiritual desert in an aimlessly drifting story. I willingly admit... well, maybe not today. It's getting somewhat late.


The sand is calling. At least that is what my therapist suggested. I guess I could listen.


But why, though? Lets take stock: I