This rock by the river. Once blanketed by thick and rushing water, now exposed and dry. Leftover residue on it’s sides. Jagged lines. Straight edges. Broken corners into new angles. Who knows how long it has had its place there. Where is its origin? It has seen its own surroundings through time – which I was not present to see. Yet, I have seen all around the mountain – which it may not have ever been to.

What knowledge do I have to gain from such a statue?

Does the gift of time outweigh the curse of being stationary? Only this rock knows; Statue. Divine. Imperfect. Perfect. Time enduring. An example.