Igneous rocks are like a stubborn customer who won’t change his hairstyle—solid and crystalline from birth in fire. Sedimentary ones are like layers of swept hair on my floor, settled and pressed over time. But, janab, I’ve learned the true heart is in metamorphic stone—like the old temple pillars I work on, where heat and pressure have rewritten their very soul, giving them a strength and grain that tells a long story. In my hands, every stone confesses its past.
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