It was curiosity that killed the cat, but the dead truly are those that only follow the stream. He captured insects, locked them up in his tiny bottles, then, put them in his wooden box of sand. The capturer became the captured whom was trapped in a tiny wooden house almost filled with sand.

Stockholm syndrome, internalized oppression, capitalist prison, and quarantines. They were constrained to dwell in a constant lockdown wherein their forced labor was their only choice of survival. Yet, as he was about to return to his fat cat city and material job, he was clinging onto the suffocating sands.

In a world where choking is the only relief for drowning, perhaps, freedom is only a spectre, a spirit, a state of mind.

He went up to see the sea. He went down to check the water mysteriously pumped by the damp sand. A child looked down on him. He looked up to the child. She might bear a child. He might bear an invention, a discovery. She was in pain; he was ignited with enthusiasm. The storm frightened her: all its raging winds and waters, killed her husband and child. He held no fear, but hope in the water which might sustain the future of his child.

Only the sands could tell the events of the man for seven years. Though, certainly, the woman in the dunes was there to stay forever.