Sculpting waves make a flowy David. (After the water rushed back into the Red Sea behind the Israelites, maybe the luckiest of Pharaoh’s men died instantly from pressure instead of horribly by drowning) Every sentient creation has an urge to build something more important than themselves, which given Man’s smallness, should be easy, but surprisingly is not. The trees looming over the home of yesteryear crochet the sky with branches and leaves.

Skipping stones periodically crush civilizations as they crash out over Time’s immortal plane. The One Who Threw Them loves the ripples of blood and concepts that echo through space time. Ideas are amorphous and irregular and soft until you reach the spike at the bottom called Lived Experience. My thoughts crumble in the awesome light of destruction. I love ideas until they pierce me for my cross. Then, on the iron and wood, I wither.