A vaguely humanoid figure formed from grains of sand fallen from sleepy eyes. 

He scatters those rough granules that form in the corners of your eyes when you're off to never-never land. His voice, if one is unlucky enough to hear it, sounds like gravel. Like the Sahara Desert on a freezing night. 

He hovers over the tired and the weary. He favours those who are weak in the vulnerability of sleep. He has been lost to tales over the years, like sand seeping through a cracked timer. The world has forgotten his voice, his form, his purpose, yet still he whispers, "Take my hand." 

It would do you good to heed the warning tales of your grandmamma and pray the lord your soul to keep. Sleep with one eye open. 

Alia Jenkins