started by a stone.
was there, white and smooth enough, seemed to say: take me . And she took it. The
nursed, then approached him on the nose, to smell it. A flower of stone, a rock salt: in the pebble beach you could not wait for the other. Here
, so I had done it again: he had that stone in his hand and knew it would be difficult to throw away, throw it on the ground, it restores the quality of any rock. There is a stone at all?
She looked slightly to the left, was called by another stone. This time he chose because it was rough and felt just by looking. It was a dark stone, black, without any grain. It was as if the work on the sea he could not move anything, a craft in his spare time, to waste time. Those jobs done quickly and without harm. But the best was that it was a rock on Sunday. From Sunday to sea in winter, when it looks like a beautiful black stone and rough and salty. And it is.
He bent down and picked this one too, not least because it could be said to be calling on deaf ears. If someone
he had accompanied there, that Sunday, maybe would not have found those two to pick up stones, might have been sitting on the wall for someone to talk to someone far away (because there is always someone out to talk about).
Here, it was better that way. Those stones were in need of a home. Those stones had called.
Those stones that now talking amongst themselves, making up in his pocket. Those stones that he apologized to each other, when, due to sudden movements, face the clash against each other. Those stones that, if she had put them together there, in his pocket, probably would not have ever known.
was there, white and smooth enough, seemed to say: take me . And she took it. The
nursed, then approached him on the nose, to smell it. A flower of stone, a rock salt: in the pebble beach you could not wait for the other. Here
, so I had done it again: he had that stone in his hand and knew it would be difficult to throw away, throw it on the ground, it restores the quality of any rock. There is a stone at all?
She looked slightly to the left, was called by another stone. This time he chose because it was rough and felt just by looking. It was a dark stone, black, without any grain. It was as if the work on the sea he could not move anything, a craft in his spare time, to waste time. Those jobs done quickly and without harm. But the best was that it was a rock on Sunday. From Sunday to sea in winter, when it looks like a beautiful black stone and rough and salty. And it is.
He bent down and picked this one too, not least because it could be said to be calling on deaf ears. If someone
he had accompanied there, that Sunday, maybe would not have found those two to pick up stones, might have been sitting on the wall for someone to talk to someone far away (because there is always someone out to talk about).
Here, it was better that way. Those stones were in need of a home. Those stones had called.
Those stones that now talking amongst themselves, making up in his pocket. Those stones that he apologized to each other, when, due to sudden movements, face the clash against each other. Those stones that, if she had put them together there, in his pocket, probably would not have ever known.
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