1. Cramping hands continues to stack, Half-hearted building of nothing. He stacks without conviction. Other sea stone spires, rise from the sand, invisible hands building, Beautiful, stalwart and supporting towers. A veritable city scape of wonder and small miracles, a hidden production he is blind to.
2. His tower collapses, he acts surprised; yet he knows the reason why the turf tumbles. With out a vision of the towers future, without hands and heart to guide. the base crumbles and dies many times. Its been too long, many waves have come and gone. His mind has surrendered to the warp and weave of the tides. Memories lost at see, visons of his tower surrendered- so he stacks mindlessly, without a conviction needed to create and share. he cannot stop, no matter how hard he wants to.
3. His frayed fingers, yearn for a rest, the soothing balm of the sea's surrender; however he cannot stop the unceasing stacking. His foundations are shared with many, and many more beautiful towers, that hold potential, he cant bear to ruin their temples. He is bound by that duty, to the towers, slivers of hope, scraps of serenity keep his fingers twitching forth. He stacks again, determined to stack even if nothing rises from the sands. he turns to a close tower, perhaps to see, to ask for some any stones. His fingers twitch, and yet with the tide he pulls back. He has only ever knocked over other towers, he wont be responsible again.