“Smelling A Stone In The Middle Of WinterI can't rememberWhat gravel and weeds look like.This little stone becomes importantAnd starts to act big.I expect it to orbit the kitchen stoveAny minute now.Near my noseIt getsBigger and biggerUntil it's a mountainI'm lost on.This stone is differentThan the stone that grinds me downAll dayAt work.This stoneSmells like the inside of your dressOn a spring afternoon.It's the hard feeling in my stomachWhen I'm talking nonsense to you.This stone is so invitingEveryone wants to walk right into itAnd become a fossil.”

“Some secrets are like fossils and the stone has become too heavy to turn over.”

“I could feel the hard part of Mom very strongly that time. It was like a stone in her that grew bigger every time my father lost his temper, right under her heart. Feeling the stone in her calmed me down. It told me that she would always be there for me.”

“I would like to stay stoned all the time, it scares me it’s so good. I would like to stay stoned every minute of every day for the rest of my life.”

“The sign outside this tent is accompanied by a small box full of smooth black stones. The text instructs you to take one with you as you enter. Inside, the tent is dark, the ceiling covered with open black umbrellas, the curving handles hanging down like icicles. In the center of the room there is a pool. A pond enclosed within a black stone wall that is surrounded by white gravel. The air carries the salty tinge of the ocean. You walk over to the edge to look inside. The gravel crunches beneath your feet. It is shallow, but it is glowing. A shimmering, shifting light cascades up through the surface of the water. A soft radiance, enough to illuminate the pool and the stones that sit at the bottom. Hundreds of stones, each identical to the one you hold in your hand. The light beneath filters through the spaces between the stones. Reflections ripple around the room, making it appear as though the entire tent is underwater. You sit on the wall, turning your black stone over and over in your fingers. The stillness of the tent becomes a quiet melancholy. Memories begin to creep forward from hidden corners of your mind. Passing disappointments. Lost chances and lost causes. Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness. Sorrows you thought long forgotten mingle with still-fresh wounds. The stone feels heavier in your hand. When you drop it in the pool to join the rest of the stones, you feel lighter. As though you have released something more than a smooth polished piece of rock.”

“You start a question, and it's like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others...”