It's 11:12 am on Saturday and there is all this fresh air outside I'd like to wash my eyeballs with. And so I will once I write a little story about a rock that sat and sat and sat until one day, someone called Jan came along, picked it up and casually tossed it into the Mississippi river. The rock flew through the air, every half second spun 1/8 of an inch, then finally dove into frothy waters leaving its ghost splash on the sandy shoreline where a man called Wim picnicked with his younger lover, Polly. The rock, now feeling less substantial in the world due to the author's inclusion of picnickers, sunk quickly into the depths of the river where slithering creatures nibbled the remaining sunshine from its exterior.
rock
