Now that you’ve hurled the stone, you turn on your heel and walk away.
Somewhere far down, there’s a splash.
Under the orb of night, little silvery beads of water try defying gravity, creating ripples, gyrating spirals in spirals. The murky waters quiver; your stone fades somewhere in the dense amalgam of dirt-brown and gloom. An endless army of ripples sets out to pillage the unbounding shores of consciousness – the ravaged shores just beginning to move on so long after the storm.
The stinking memories surface like rancid corpses in canal. A wound slowly begins to open up and an old, perverted yearning seeps out silently. I look into the streaming lymph. It’s long since kept; now it’s not going to stop. At least not for a while. I’ll shatter bit by bit, piece by piece with the hands of clock, ticking their circle tirelessly, endlessly.
But you just hurled a stone.