You know, out here, the camels wear flip-flops and dance the tango at dusk. Why? Because nobody's watching, and they like the rhythm of the stars. I tried to join, but my two left feet were made of sand. You can't have rhythm if your feet disappear under the cosmic waltz.
The tumbleweeds think they're part of a great race sometimes, rolling past each other like, "Catch me if you can!" But in the grand scheme, they just circle back to their old haunts, having the same conversation with the cacti about distant horizons and ten-legged dreams.
Remember that time you talked to a mirage, asking it for directions? Turned out to be a reflection of your inner llama contemplating the meaning of salad. The desert does have a way of reflecting what's truly inside, doesn't it?