What do we make of our thoughts, in a continuous summation of facts, assumptions and fiction? Sometimes conformed, sometimes absorbed, understood or impartialy concluded. It is like a passage of time travell. We live and relive many moments in a singularly definable lifetime. Holding supposedly within a few cuboidal inches we can imagine bewtween our ears, that eventually fill with the voice and vibrations reverbrating from walls and the world, accounting all that has happened.
For them, its not a question of choice, a rock that tells a story, just tells a story, it is us, maybe, in our tumble, are born so maleable and elastic that we never understand the rigidity with which it saw around through time. And now it tells and tells and tells making space to withness more. Gods sitting inside statues. Wanting to be heard so that they remain where they are and not get dissolved. All they seem capable of is holding an image.