Sufi would have expected someone to notice him, after all, it was he who brought them sand. Sand, which was the literal building block of their world, was his design, his creation. And not a single one of them worshipped him for it. "Khufu. Khufu!" Sufi had been pacing, back and forth, on a cloud high above the city of the pharaoh. He had seen enough and began calling the name of his closest friend, another lesser deity in the Egyptian pantheon, Khufu. Khufu "lived" on the next cloud over, and at the moment, had his nose stuck in a copy of the latest primer that the humans had written on papyrus.
Without looking up, he said, "You know," he licked his index and forefinger, turned the primer over, and continued, "The humans will see you if you keep wearing holes in your cloud with all the incessant pacing."
