Micheal lives in a cabin at a place I won’t disclose , surrounded by creatures who cannot blush or tell him lovely empties

He spends his day cutting wood into logs

Therapy

And plays poker at the whiskey manufacturer near his abode

A maybe less productive therapy

Nevertheless, Micheal loves his quaint little life, and has found immense, straightforward pleasure in the nature around him

Rocks, for example, are an aspect he finds a gravity with

For the come in a variety of shapes and sizes with glints of glitter in some, crystal in others, or a comfortable plainness with a steadfast sense of variety

Rocks, he thinks

Don’t have to be understood, to be understood

You could wonder about what made them the way they are,

Years and years of toil under soil, beatings from the sun, parades of rain,

But under it all, and even on the face

Rock is rock, rock is grounded

It contains life and sediments of such but it doesn’t become any less or any more because of

Or

For it.

So rock is rock, and he loves the stability

One day, he imagines.

When he is too old to cut wood the same, or when poker and liquor takes too much of a toll, or to little of one.

He will find a nice cliff, of rocks

And use chalk,

And climb.

Because even if it cracks on the way up

Or it doesn’t

It didn’t mean to break you

In its own brokenness

He imagines

For long periods

That whatever cliff he ends up scaling will be something the rocks love enough to spend forever building ground for

Steadfast, and the same, and different, and known

Micheal doesn’t mind what would happen, when it would happen

For Micheal loves rocks, they are what they are

There is a form of torture, Micheal thinks,

In loving humans

So he loves rocks.

Rocks.