You’ve got your pebbles and pea gravel and flaked rocks and pea-sand and sand and flour sand. That last is the soft stuff, soft as a child’s dreams, easy to sink a stilltent in. Ramsey always bragged, he did, bragged about how he got his best sleep when out on the lam avoiding authorities, said he could find the softest patch of flour sand for miles. “That’s how the Fremen slept,” he’d say. Ramsey would wake fresher than a pampered noble after a night on such a cushion.
Not me. No thank you. I conjure it wise to always sleep with a good stone or three jutting into your back. Sure, my spine is a twisted road of pain, but I’m still here. No one is going to creep up on me. My slumber is lighter than a dust mote.
Ramsey? He went and got his throat slit in his sleep. I’m sure he was having the sweetest dreams though.