In a way, this lonesome broken place represented me. The sand spilling through each doorway, overtaking another aspect of this house. This house that once used to be called home. The sunlight spilling through forced upon windows. The paint flaking off the walls, trying so desperately to hang on. To conceal the harsh fact that this house had no use. To get through the door, one would have to climb and push and shove and ravage. The grains of sand teasingly falling through burnt hands.

Soon, the sand overwhelms you. First, your legs get stuck and I would argue that those are the most important parts of your body. You don’t realise at first that you’ve been ensnared. Then as you wade on, you try to lift a leg and realise you can’t. It's weighed down and as you try the other, you realise it's reached the same fate. The sand takes away your freedom of movement first. Yet, you still hold on to your ridiculous naive hope to move forwards.

The next thing the sand snatches away from you is your torso and arms. You dont realise how fast, how vicious this sand is. You twist and turn, squirming and kicking while the sand trickles into your clothes. You're stuck indefinitely. Next to go is your head, you frantically tilt your head to the ceiling looking for reprieve but alas. The sand chokes you in every way you could ever think possible. It’s poison, seeping into every crack. Your eyes, mouth, ears. There's no escape and so the sand slowly swallows you whole.

The last thing the sand invades is your mind. The raw and quiet acceptance of disappearance makes itself known. The mind spinning, swirling and sinking. And so, the sand claims yet another person who was foolish enough to enter this old house.