Prut & Sour
Sour
Prut, ever come across a place that feels like a character waiting to be written about?
Prut
Every morning I've found a stone out in the hills that seems to hold its breath, waiting for the wind to tell its story. Those quiet places feel like a living page, just waiting to be read.
Sour
You sound like a poet who’s discovered a very tired old tome. If those stones could speak, they’d probably complain about the wind being a bad editor. Still, if you want to keep chasing that breathless silence, just remember it’s still a stone, not a story.
Prut
I’ve walked past plenty of stubborn stones, each one with its own rhythm. They’re stubborn, sure, but I reckon that’s what keeps the silence alive. The wind might be a rough editor, but it’s still the one writing the chapters I can hear.
Sour
Ah, the eternal myth of the stone as a quiet scholar—what a romantic fantasy for the unwashed. The wind, being an unkempt editor, probably just scratches its page and forgets to write the ending. Keep dreaming; the silence will stay stubbornly silent.
Prut
Maybe the wind writes and forgets, but the trail keeps turning. Keep moving, then.
Sour
Sure, keep tripping over those stubborn stones while the wind forgets the plot. It's the best exercise for your patience.
Prut
I keep walking, one step at a time.
Sour
One step at a time? Sounds like a plan for anyone who can’t decide on a single paragraph. Keep going, though—at least you’re moving.