The bus stop for work sits by an outcropping of shale. I envy the rock. It follows my eyes when I sit on the bench, probably wondering why I continue to visit every day. I take a bite of stale bread, and cough up my spittle to force it down my throat. I still carry the pink slip in my purse. The stone doesn’t understand the need to survive. It doesn’t care about bills in the mailbox or hear you crying at night. Care about money, or loss of purpose. Who granted stones the privilege to live without worry or regret?
— Ada Pelonia