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.
