Thanks Dave, I needed that..
mmmm, it does explain a lot though.
I confess. I touch rocks. I just don’t touch them, I bring them home. I hide them in the folds of my cloth, and in the dark places of my camera case, and shield their wickedness within the pockets of my jeans.
I let them enter into the house of my dwelling and place them upon alters of idolatry.
They sit upon my hearth and my mantel, and their wicked countenance beams forth from my window sills, dresser top and bottom of my washing machine.
My children upon returning from their own dwellings to visit my humble cabin, nash their teeth and bemoan my wicked ways as the stumble over the rocks at the entry way to my porches (both front and back) and rail loudly at my blasphemous habit.
“Mother!” they cry, “those rocks, you have them everywhere, they will be your downfall and ruination, one of these nights when you are out doing your pagan ritual of adoring the moon in all its glory, you will return into your dwelling house in darkness and stumble for your last time upon your piled up rocks of sin!