Walking across the purple grass, with all its strange smells, noises and creatures, the girl stared at the face of the mountain. He had a giant beard of trees, moss and brambles, with vines winding and creeping down from his rocky, jagged ears. His eyes twinkled, the precious diamond of their making reflecting the coldly-blue moonlight. A giant cave was his mouth, with glistening white alabaster towers for teeth. A stream was pouring out from his left eye, following the runnels of his craggy face.
‘Why do you cry?’ She asked of the Mineral Man.
A slow, deep rumbling began from within his cave. The ground started to shake and hum with ancient, earthly power.
‘I cry for lost souls. For those who cannot see the beauty of themselves, of their imaginations, of the people around them, and the world in which they live. I will cry until my river runs dry and the last person to think of me has died; then too shall I wither and crumble to dust.’
The Mineral Man said these words slowly and ponderously, aware of every syllable and conscious of time flowing round him. Once he had finished, the girl had already left.