I stared into his wrinkles. They reminded me of ridges in sandstone. High on the sides, carved out in the middle like the soft stone it was. His face was becoming as ancient as the land. One day, I thought, I will wake up and he will have moss growing on his eyelids. His cheekbones will have pushed through his flesh, like rock pushing through the hillside. Erosion will turn him into something I barely recognize until I will have to lay him on the hills amongst the stone most like him.
