Festival of Sand Figures

I built a man of sand I myself donated it with two sandy hands, he spread them and flew away with a scream in the overflowing blue, somewhere. This guy has no shoes, there is only one old black suit. and with it are redundant pretensions, masquerades and stretch of lump, His white shirt does not shine, it does not shine as in a laundry detergent advertisement, he (the sandy man) poet is not even, but he lives in my fictional world. I know she can drive well and he really loves me. Perhaps his daughter named Elvira and it's probably big now and does not mean it. Standing right in the kitchen I see it does some work ... Fog is falling. And I wonder, is it spirit or foresight? a moment of future reality, a fate?