I’m fifteen. Today. Oh my.
What’s older than rocks? I don’t know, but their kind of like money, when you hold a stone, it’s almost like all the places it’s been, all the hands and states it’s passed through, flutter through you like wingbeats. Well, a stampede of razor thin flutters blitzes around you and through you like a cloud of insects. The skin-smooth stones, and jagged sharp ones, pressing into your bare feet. The sand like a fleshy strip, before the formless lake. Sometimes they do’t have to be stepping stones, sometimes they just need to be ordinary stones, to step upon them.