Upon the ocean shore, there is a rock: hard, black, porous, volcanic. Gentle seas send ripples against its base. Stormy seas send waves to relentlessly batter it, crashing over its top. Both the lapping waves and the crashing waves cart away parts of the rock -- one unit of grit at a time. The lapping waves need patience; the crashing waves need energy, but they both insist a tax be paid for their labors. Just looking at the rock, one can tell it was once different: bigger, its pores filled with other rock -- softer rock, rock that the sea long ago turned into sandy bottoms and beaches. The rock is dissolving like an ice cube, except in geologic time.
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