Let my toes teach the shore how to feel a tranquil life through the wetness of sands Let my heart latch the door of blackness, as all my pain now blue sky understands
If I can write, who possibly can’t. Even drawing a line in the sand is writing
They continued across the seemingly endless sands, watering every grain with their sweat, anointing every granule with their strain. In the hourglass of time the sands continued to shift, and they couldn't find their way outside the glass. Their shadows struggled with them, hauling and heaving, dropping with them, and clambering up with them, and reminding them constantly that otherwise they were alone.
The ancient and the modern blended together in haunting harmony. The war looked like a dream here; a fantasy dwarfed by the sands of time.
Bermuda's beaches are justly famed for their pink sands, colored by the pulverized shells of single-celled organisms called foraminifera. When occupied by bikini-clad sunbathers, the beaches, with Victorian primness, appear to be blushing.
Extracting oil from the tar sands is a nasty, polluting, energy-intensive business.
Well, actually, I do the voiceover for Quentin Sands.