And laying there he asked "What do you like about me?"
"What if I said I didn't like anything at all? She responded, monotone, staring of into space blankly, as if it were really the answer.
"Then I would ask what were even doing here in the first place" he'd said, slightly taken aback. Cold as well.
"And what if I said I didn't know?"
Silence pursued. And in that moment they both knew. Both knew there was no time for silly games, reasons for why they liked eachother or why they didn't. The answer was that it didn't matter. In hearts made of stone, and so cold no life exists-moments, such as these-never mattered, and were soon forgotten after a time. Making no mark upon the hollow stone, the moment itself never seemed to take even a grain of sand from the ever falling time clock. Slipping between the cracks, lost and forgotten forever, they both knew.
And in that, the time clock continued, and the sand continued to run it's course. Telling us we had more time, yet laughing quietly to itself, knowing it didn't matter if it gave us all the time in the world. For rocks do not live. They simply, carry on. For they have no other purpose in life, and as much as they try to move, they know they are only part of the mountain for which they're trying to climb. And so time laughs, as time carries on, and the rocks serve as steady placemats for those who need rest, but are soon left behind, trying to soak up the warmth of the sun, and growing ever more colder, as the dead of night continues to entrap them.