Sitting on a beach three feet from the water, his feet buried in the sand. One hand lifts a small pile of sand and lets it run through his fingers back onto the beach. The other hand lifts a larger pile and he watches the sand flow as if the grains are connected through is fingers again. Then both hands together the small streams of sand run differently at different speeds and in different quantities. Lifting his feet out of the sand he watches the sand flow again off his feet and through his toes and if he places each foot at a different angle so the flow of sand changes.
He uses one hand to wipe the remaining sand off the other and stares at the nearly clean hand, slightly irritated that there are a few grains of sand that have resisted his efforts to make it clean. He stares at them wondering where they are supposed to be, feeling some guilt as if his actions have disrupted the quiet existence of the sand. There must be some structure, some alignment of the grains of sand on this beach? Surely some meaning, some purpose to provide for their place on the beach? Is his hand part of some great plan, has he disrupted the natural flow of the existence of the sand? Should he take each grain remaining on his hand and place it at some strategic point on the beach?
He gets up and wanders back towards the road, feeling the drag of the sand on his legs. He walks diagonally to the boundary and not straight to the edge.
Why is it that when people leave a beach they rarely walk at ninety degrees to its boundary, they always find a path at an angle to the boundary? Do they want to preserve the sensation of the sand on their feet or do they feel that to walk the shortest distance would embarrass them by giving the impression they are in a hurry?
Stepping off the beach up onto the pavement his bare foot lands on a piece of broken green glass. Reality is back, his thoughts of the sand reduced to nothing more than the epitome of pointless musings.