Fluid world; Rocks and People

watering

Rocks are old… in the late winter sun, when I lie on them, rocks are cold… on my back… rocks are hard… right after a lunch and a smoke, when I’ve slipped past friends and foes, rocks are smoother than my escapes… rocks come in many shapes… in the late afternoon, when I lie on them, quite useless otherwise… rocks start floating inside my closed eyes… If I could prolong my useless demeanor, and stretch my disappearance long enough, I am surer than I am alive, that rocks are quite accommodating… rocks change, rocks flow, rocks break, rocks grow… it is indeed a fluid world… rocks are like water… rocks are sold, to melt and mold… to decorate and to secure… to move around and to endure… rocks are old… in the late winter sun, when I rest on them, rocks are cold…

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