Although not a shepherd like David. Life is full of Psalms. Sam concluded this after spending the entire afternoon in the beach's sunshine.

Sam Wrote The Psalm — *In the beach's sunshine, Sam was deeply convicted he was right.*

Waves were flowing, crashing on rocks. The beats taking motion as the winds flute their melody, sand sinking; it was an exotic tone—the sun shining on his countenance as its radiance palpitated elegant words on his temple. Indeed, he was the temple of the Holy One. The words took life through a sweet voice in his heart. Love was the language.

Where are the lyrics? He scratched hard, thought wide, and screamed. His career in the endless pit. His wife feasted all he had. The reason, divorce happened. His children castigate him as a thief of ma's love. It was hard being David or rather easier being a shepherd. Provocative thoughts.

It was him, his tiny head, and a bit of anger to coerce the hate he had for the world. His Psalm was of lamentations. How could this have happened to him? He kept all the commandments. He happily gave alms. He anchored no help where needed as the Samaritan but he was all alone now.

He was confused if the Psalms were written in bitter tears, red eyes, or ecstatic apparitions of the Holy One. His faith was on edge of the world. It was a battle not between good or bad but truth or false. What if this was just a narrative our ancestors used to discourage waywardness. It's been 34 years of believing deeply and now left alone to the wolves. He desired a miracle and very badly for this love was defeated by hate. He was to burst open.

But not now a flicker of hope rekindled. He remembered his old mother's grave. Now flashes of the happy memories of the wide smiles with eyes of white salt. As the incident when he was 12 drew near his pineal.

Angela: Sam I wish I was an angel.

Sam: Ma, lately you have had some weird fantasies. Are you to go to heaven soon but keep postponing. Who dares to be an angel so as not to die? And if you have to leave so soon you could just tell me the pin to the credit card.

Angela: An angel with eight wings, wings of the finest details, a smoking head, hands of thunder, eyes to perceive the future, and a tongue of pink flesh. Sam, so I can watch over you. The earth is not safe for angels like you. Do not abandon the faith son.

Sam: Ma, do not be a hypocrite. I have 4 years of service as an altar server where can I get such thoughts if not from your speech.

Bewildered he too desired those eyes to dive into the future. How could he have salvaged much from such disclosure before his life turned the left side? He thought of his little Angela and how happy she could have been having seen big Angela.

Nowhere was safe for little angels like him and now the consolation was enough as he got on his motorcycle and rode to eternity. Leaving all this suffering to be an angel.

On the cross, you shall be with me in paradise.

Sam Wrote The Psalm