Thus gathered have the stones to raise a mountain.

Yet where lies the green, its placement so rightful upon the mountains? A glacial cold permeates a corner of heart mine.

Rocks are mired in the grasps of the red thing still.

Unchanged are its motions, swinging and lashing the rocks with abandon—or casting them far away.

Yet, the head that had once wavered so is visible no more.

Nay, the stone is now rooted steadfast into the earth, and the rotund sphere has transfigurated into a deltoidal triangle;

an accurate assessment would state as such—while the head remains still, the wavering has ceased.

What stable form, what stalwart balance it has attained.

Indeed, at the edge of change was evolution found for this entity.

Yet even evolution is no deliverance from torpidity.

The entity’s tranquility, a consequence of electing immobility with stability, is no assiduity at all.

I know not what movement shall it take at the end’s end.

Should its motions cease, so too shall it suspend its sentience.

When, in the end, all comes to cease, it cannot be said any longer that it lives.

How unideal, how odd.

Such is all I have to say.