In the response to colonial advertising, the old cleric Jácob Boone could barely contain his anger, but just as he was about to explode in a gloriously reticulated fashion. A camel spat a five odored sputum on his honest, handmade leather bootlegs. He lost it. In an attempt to create an atmosphere that could compete with the bustling sand city. He become irate and proliferated, the incrimination of verbal deception enduring reductions in a testimony only comparable to the cold North. The straw hangs off everything in the street, the pungent smell of meat is consistently poured into the whistling air from Pzérc Pi’s house of halal.
“He reminisced about the muddy cobblestone street back in London. How the falling rain would squelch beneath his boot. Moss clinging to the deep crevasses of the environment. Horses trotting purposefully across the view, a huge carriage in tow. Peasants negotiating an agreement that is more impressionable than their will for survival. Their lives meaningless if deemed so, their woes listened to by no one other than their inner ear. The wind is a friend when it’s gone but an enemy when it arrives; but not here.”
The stacking evidence brings indifference to the prospected travel module. He stared long and difficultly at the enormous woven basket, attached to a slowly inflating titan-sized balloon. He swooned in it’s magnificence. The simmering panic in his whimpers brought about a complete collapse after he had struggled to catch his breath. For ten minutes the driver tried to squeeze a dirty cloth in an attempt to release a couple of droplets of water. He quickly came to. Back on his feet and not-so-ready for this now even more torturous journey; in the letters he had been told it was the easiest way to travel the dunes. He hoped to bring prosperity, diplomacy and health to the sacred people of the sand. He sneezed, then reluctantly climbed aboard.