Questioning The Blindspot

Am I floating in the Blue air or perhaps I'm drowning in the deep blue sea. Am the sandman? I've seen the man they throw sand at. Blind ruckus, Will always remind us of the wide compass. Time will always confront us of the sunless numbness. These empty words fall to the ferocious who inhabit the blindspots of our morale. Interpret the plague as a supernal punishment that derives from the happiness of a quiet death.