A boy as young as a bubble cast from the froth of a stormy sea blows into his whistle like the harmattan blasting over the Sahara in the bleary days of August. He is plunged into the ocean of his own thoughts like a nuclear submarine scraping the darkness of the sea floor. His supreme companion holds him in the trap of his arm like a hunter of affection laying snares for the bear of boyhood friendship, while gazing upon the masses in the distance roiling like soup pot of an aged grandmother.
At that time a grandmother as wrinkled as a desert date mummified in the tomb of a pharaoh for millennia appeared and swept past them like an incontinent ballerina, her nervousness spilling from her like the waters of a bursting dam. Beneath the shawl on her head she guarded an object as though she were a ninja hiding squid ink at midnight. Meanwhile, behind them a man as sombre as the funeral of a thousand puppies looked the other way with eyes as knowing as an orgy of the sages.
Hey everybody — thanks for reading 🙂