Anything seen from far away enough can be graceful, be that in distance or time.
That was how Sam envisioned the hurricane: an enchanting swirl of white, no more threatening than cream stirred into coffee. However, the people down below, on the land, were not so lucky.
He did not know exactly where he was. He saw an island; but he wasn't quite there. It felt like he was watching from somewhere far above, nothing but a tourist in the waking world.
At that point, Sam was sure he was dreaming. And he was quite glad it was only that, in fact.
The consequences of what was going on before his very eyes would have been too devastating to deal with in real life.
The hollowing wind showed no mercy.
It swept through the so-called streets of the small, rather improvised-looking city the inhabitants of the island called home, tearing everything down in its path.
People were running for their lives.
A small child, no older than seven, was holding on with all his might to his mother's hand, dark hair, blown in his face by the wind, covering his even daker, scared eyes.
Sam never found out if he made it to safety. The sky was now even darker than a dome of coal.
A final wave swept over the city, as if the hurricane had eventually decided to wipe away, in shame, all the destruction it had caused.
Sam awoke. Relieved that everything had been just an eerie dream, he got out of bed, turning the TV on.
"Hurricane strikes Tarakan island" reads the headline, accompanied by an image of the rampage Sam had seen minutes before. His heart skipped a beat.
He sat down, unable to believe what had just happened.