At three in the morning …

At three in the morning I creep to the kitchen sink. With trembling hands I fill my mug. The eyeless faces of my stones stare up at me. They say: Enjoy your drink, little man. They say: We stared up through rushing streams at the stars a thousand years before you were born.

– The Incredible, the local, the brilliant Anthony Doerr
Cloudy Is the Stuff of Stones

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