An Improv on sand.

Suddenly wide awake as the wind blows in, sand dusting the hollows of my ears. How deep do these caverns go? I can shut out the choking cyclones only for a moment with a finger. The curve of the ear, the delicate desire of the tempting lobe. Nothing: gone. Now my own, invaded by sand, itching in a way I don't like. Will this storm bury us all tonight? A whole party made smooth by minute rubbings during the night? Nothing--not a half-sunk visage, nor remnants of a colossal wreck. We would be silenced in a great sand. Ears, mouths, full, bulked with sand. Voided out entirely, into a greater mass.
What was the point of this journey? Seeking tombs only to find my own? In the gaps of the rock, sticking a probing finger. No point of lighting a lamp now. Used to the dark, can write at night, finding the lines with a fool's instinct. I can even decipher these pitiful scuffles in the morning. At dusk I am happiest, the white tents glowing from their interior lights, blurring their edges in the sand. I think about the warmth of my hearth in my faraway home. Much of it is lost to distracted memory--I can't quite remember all the details. Where does the hall meet the dining room? Is my bedroom door on the left or right? As I try to recall the floorplan of my old home, I forget my worries with my favourite evening hobby:
I write in the dark: the lights on my street are probably flickering on right this instant.

By morning, the wind has left us. My tent has acquired an odd lean: sand lies heavy on one side. I push off the odd weight from the inside of my tent wall like a light corpse.