Imagine yourself as the stone. Years of erosion - wind, sand, and tumbling through the water over other rocks - have erased your crags. Once an infinitesimal part within the slowly creeping monolith whole of the sea floor, you've become a matte-smooth egg, now just a few grams in mass, warm and dry in the sun. You are lifted, hefted easily by a child whose other hand is held by an adult. You arc through the air with the throw - in sunlight and shadow as you tumble - to land with a small splash on a wavelet. Ripples spread outward and above you as you flutter down to join the sea floor once again. You are the ripple, moving outwards. Behind you nest concentric rings, flowing towards but never catching you as your diameter grows. They wane, but you travel without drag, somehow separate from everyday space, and unslowing. Still just a small ring, but you're growing, and sweep up a canal in Stamford, Connecticut. Your diameter grows, and sweeps over a writer, contemplating a Half Full Rye IPA.