Accountability to even just being with the stone seems too great. Can I not have my own refuges of doubt, clouds, and anxious espionage? The stone says little, but in silence a lot. I have not been in such a position to have to ask myself these questions, knowing that I must deliver an answer. In the end I have nothing, and were the earth raked by some meteor to a depth of a thousand feet, exposing the granite of stones to be melted, cracked and washed for a million more years, I would have no less.
Old age darkens my once clear vision as it hurtles to crack my knees. Now, I am of blood, skin, bone, touch, and words. I was once made of this stone and I will be again. Whatever I am drifts out the window tonight, leaving a stone I could not trade for a grain of rice, black from the oil of one season of my days.
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