Just grab that thing right there, son. That’s it, the rock.

Next to it. The flatter one… Goddamn it… Here, this one.

Grab it and then place it like a jelly-jar lid between your pointer finger and your thumb. Good.

Why, take that there rock and rear back like a sprinkler head, ready to launch the thing. But make sure you reeeeeel it back good and hard. No… more angled… up, not down. Like… this. Otherwise you’ll sink it. Don’t sink that stone, son. Mustn’t sink it.

So, reared-back and eyes steadied, step forward swingin’, slingin’ your arm, but more or less guide that thing. You ain’t got a chance, nope. Come on.

Let the rock choose its course. Let it think that it is in control. Otherwise, you’ll sink that stone. C a n n o t  sink it, son.

So, as that rock thinks it has control, you, not thinkin’, will fling it when your arm’s nearly fully-extended. You’re slappin’ the horizon, if you really get down to it and think about it.

But son, don’t think about the rock. Don’t think about me, you, mama. Ain’t nothin’ to think about except nothin’.

Just that open horizon – hurl it towards that horizon and upon release you’ll see just what you haven’t thought about.

It will glide from you, and you’ll know it before it strikes water. Know that you thought about it or not. Know that you launched it all right.

You feel it more than throw it, son.

Knowin’, mid-flight, whether you’ve given that rock the journey you’ve set out to give it. Know if it will skip its way across endless meters of otherwise uninterrupted calm. The beauty of the skippin’, dancin’ rock, barely grazin’ that surface, hoppin’ distances a rock could only dream about going by itself.

You see, son, you can give that rock a livelihood it cannot achieve on its own.

So tell me now, son.

Are you gonna sink that stone?