You're riding a bicycle through a scorching desert. You are sweating profusely. Your bicycle is so rusty it looks as fragile as a potato chip. It suddenly collapses beneath you. You decide to walk with the wheels of the bicycle taped to your feet. It's a sentimental, nostalgic thing. Much like the feeling you get when you have a haircut, and the hair sprinkles down the back of your shirt. The past is there, but IT's itchy as hell. You arrive at a grocery store. You walk inside. You see that the store only sells one product: sand. It bursts. You are running out of the grocery store. Shiny things.