It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.

You are the shuckiest shuck faced shuck in the world!

The rolling stone rolls echoing from rock to rock; but the rolling stone is dead. The moss is silent because the moss is alive. 

Another story begins... There, about a dozen times during the day, the wind drives over the sky the swollen clouds, which water the earth copiously, after which the sun shines brightly, as if freshly bathed, and floods with a golden luster the rocks, the river, the trees, and the entire jungle.

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.