My skin is as dry as the face of autumn, not because of the summer sun, but because I lost the last drop of water from my happiness. Every day, I pass by the seller of sadness and donate to him my tears. There are also other reasons for all this dryness in my soul; the most important of which is that I am a strange thing that the days found lying on a lost island that had been abandoned by its people. I was a pile of sand then. And this is not really the strange thing. Rather, the strange thing is that at the time I was able to move and did not know that I was a sand man, but now, as I am talking to you; I feel like a man of sand who is not good at anything, and I feel like I am very dry and made of death. And that happiness that shines like a pearl in a silver tent can only be satisfied with a heart of sand, so my heart is full of happiness. And that's because I'm a man of sand.
