the slippage of memory is a curious thing, like a river of birds in the sand. they flock with their wings beating rings into shores into dust, as they dance out of hand. the fog of the feral, the dust of the pharoah traverses to faraway lands, then back through the border of conscient subconscious relaying the medleys of kant. the birds are an ocean... upon its return to the birds and the rocks, weathered dust is a seed and a friend. pervasive in air, and persuasive in flair, its brings men to their knees and their end. some call it a scent and some feel it a touch, others still try to grasp, but their hands are dust, which composes the dust, decomposing to dust as the birds dance again.