The stone unwashed and unkempt almost tries to become a diamond but stops midway between gasps of terrified breaths, terrified of the horror of remaining just an ordinary stone, carrying on the baggages of the moss that has grown upon him, obviously encouraged by his inability to refuse to play host when he should have been shaking them off, of his inability to refure a gratitude with that of further bonhomie and silently dragging the cares that has been laid without a care for his concern,his hapiness and his joys especially in face of the other stones who have been born diamonds, without the tremendous pressure of trying to become so despite the ordinariness of their origin, to profoundly reflect , not the world that they are grown in but the world they want to grow up into, albeit, nay despite the stickiness of mundaneness that calls out its cries , so piercing and so discordant, painfull yet unignorable, a magnetic pull in the direction the stone wants to go, with its own logic that is a remainnant from some big black space where he doesnt want to fall again.
It just wants a sparkle
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