We admire the stillness of rocks at times. But almost everything is like that. Look around you at the things in your room. If you stopped moving, would any of them move? A few weeks after you yourself some number might be taken away. But wherever they went, there they'd sit - and mostly sit forever. The trees and grass out your window stir a bit, but just at the tips. And fewer at once than our motion-glued senses credit. The animals sleep or wait or watch or digest. We too find ways to rest, to stand about, to stay. The world's hair may slightly blow about in the single wind that's its air - a wind thus barely astir at all - but from where we sit the thing itself nearly never has moved. And no one's sitting anywhere else. This is it. This is the show. To think about it properly is to hardly think at all. But we don't think properly. More than anything else we are we're landslides. Our bodies may stop for breaks but the particles we ripple through still slosh about inside them. Every skull's a cocktail glass of sand. Set down so fast some wobble for a hundred fifteen years, which rocks say isn't very long at all. Or would if they bothered to speak, which they never have.