Latest / Boring Science / Boring Science for Sleep _ The Quiet Story of Rocks

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Boring Science for Sleep _ The Quiet Story of Rocks · Boring Science

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Speaker 1: Hello there, and welcome back to Boring Science for Sleep.
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I'm so glad you've arrived. If tonight is one of
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those nights where sleep feels distant, or your thoughts are
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a little too loud, you're in the right place. We'll
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take it slow, together. Tonight, let's go somewhere still. Not
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up towards stars that blink and shimmer, and not out
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to the restless sea with its luminous tide, but down
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down to the old earth beneath your feet, to the
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stories pressed into silence, to the weight of time itself.
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You see, there is a kind of wisdom that does
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not shout, nor hurry, nor shimmer with brilliance. It is slow, steady,
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stone still. Rocks don't beg for attention. They don't bloom,
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or breathe, or blink. But they remember. And if you
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listen closely... they will tell you the oldest stories this
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planet has ever known. Imagine lying down on a patch
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of cool ground. You press your hand to the earth.
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Beneath that meters, miles below, are layers of memory, stacked
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like ancient books, in a library no human built. Each
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layer a time, each crack a whisper. Granite once flowed
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like honey. Sandstone was born in deserts that no longer exist. Obsidian,
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black and smooth, came from mountains that burned. So tonight,
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you don't have to travel far to journey deep. We're
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staying here, wrapped in blankets, nestled in quiet thought, and
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sinking slowly into the patient world beneath us. Let your
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breath match the rhythm of stillness. Let your body grow
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heavy like boulders at rest, and let the stories of
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stone carry you gently. into sleep. If these sleepy science
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stories bring you peace, you're warmly invited to subscribe. And
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if a particular kind of rock or memory ever spoke
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to you, share it in the comments below. We read
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them slowly, like fossils, carefully, with care. Close your eyes,
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and let's go back. Not just to your childhood, not
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to the time before cities, not even to the first
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forest or the first drop of rain. Let's go far,
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far back, to a time before the earth had a name,
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before it had oceans or wind or anything soft. A
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time when the only sound was silence, broken by fire.
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The earth was born in a storm of violence, a
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swirl of dust, metal and gas, spinning in the warm
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glow of a young star. Gravity did its quiet work,
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pulling bits together, whispering, come closer. to become more. And
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bit by bit, dust became pebble, pebble became boulder, boulder
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became planet. But it didn't come together gently. The newborn
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Earth was a furnace, hotter than any fire we've known.
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Its surface churned with molten rock, oceans of lava that
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moved like breath. The first rocks weren't still. They bubbled, boiled,
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and exploded. They were born from fire, not time. These
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are the igneous rocks, the first of their kind. Their
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name means of fire, and that's exactly what they were.
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Fragments of a world that cooled down just enough to
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begin holding shape. Picture the early earth like a glowing
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orange ember, not solid, not yet quiet, but trying. And then,
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as if the planet exhaled, some of that molten rock cooled,
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The heat retreated inward, and the surface stiffened like cooling wax.
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Basalt was among the first to arrive. It's a dark,
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fine-grained stone, like hardened smoke. Basalt poured from early volcanoes,
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and when it touched the air, it turned to rock
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in a matter of minutes. Fast-born, dense, common, it built
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the floor of oceans we hadn't dreamed of yet. And
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then came granite, the quiet giant. Unlike basalt, granite cooled slowly,
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deep beneath the surface. It didn't rush. It formed over millennia,
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its crystals growing large and visible, like stars frozen in stone.
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If you've ever touched granite, in a kitchen, on a mountainside,
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beneath your feet on a high trail, you've touched time
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made solid. Granite is the rock of patience. It holds
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stories we can see with our eyes. Quartz, mica, feldspar.
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Each a different sparkle, a different voice in the choir
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of the earth's beginnings. But the story doesn't end with fire.
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As the earth cooled, something miraculous happened. Rain, from steam
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in the sky, fell the first droplets of water. And
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those droplets, over years and centuries, met the stones and
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changed them. You see, water has a quiet persistence. It
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doesn't shout. It just keeps going. Down slopes, through cracks,
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over edges worn smooth. And when water met rock, the
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world began to change. Mountains started to crumble. Lava fields cracked.
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And tiny bits broke free. Sand, silt, clay, each one
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a fragment of something older. carried by rivers, swept by wind,
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these pieces began to settle, layer upon layer, like the
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pages of a book written by time. These are the
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beginnings of sedimentary rocks, born not in fire, but in memory.
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Imagine the bottom of an ancient sea, dust and shell,
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plant and ash, drifting down like snow in slow motion.
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Over thousands of years, the layers build. Then they press together,
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tightened by the weight of time and gravity. And slowly, gently,
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a new kind of rock is born. Sand becomes sandstone.
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Mud becomes shale. Tiny sea creatures leave behind limestone. And
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in each stone, you can find traces of life, trapped
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like dreams. Sedimentary rocks are storytellers. They keep fossils alive.
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They record floods, droughts, migrations. They remember what it was
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like to be soft and then become strong. But even
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these rocks, born in layers, hardened by pressure, aren't safe
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from change. Because deep beneath the earth, something always stirs. Heat. Weight. Movement.
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The earth shifts, and rocks are pulled down, miles below
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where they began, Down there, things are different. The pressure
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is unbearable. The temperature rises again. And the rocks, though solid,
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begin to bend. Not melt. Not break. Just change. This
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is where we meet the metamorphic rocks. Stones that have
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lived more than one life. Marble was once limestone. Slate
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was once shale. Schist a name that sounds like a secret.
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was once mud, shaped, and reshaped, until it shimmered. Metamorphic
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rocks are the poets of geology. They don't forget what
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they were. They just learn how to become something new.
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So you see, even rocks, those still, silent pieces of earth,
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aren't fixed forever. They are made. Broken.
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Speaker 2: Moved.
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Speaker 1: Transformed. And all of it begins... with fire and dust.
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Even now, beneath your resting body, the planet continues its work.
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Molten stone pulses below, pushing, folding, cooling. And above, the
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wind still sculpts, the rivers still carve, the mountains still fall,
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the ocean still sifts. Time doesn't stop for rocks, but rocks,
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they slow it down enough for us to see. So
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the next time you pick up a small stone, smooth
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from a river or jagged from a cliff, you're not
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just holding a piece of earth. You're holding a story,
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a beginning, a fragment of fire, cooled by patience, shaped
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by time. Let it rest in your palm. Let your
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eyes grow heavy. And if your dreams drift toward glowing lava,
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ancient rain and crystals blooming in the dark, You'll know.
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The first stones are still telling their story. And they're
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happy you listened. Let's stay low. Not just lying on
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the ground. But beneath it. Deep beneath it. Deeper than roots.
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Deeper than bones. Deeper than sunlight can reach. Down here,
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the world feels different. Heavy. Slow. Quiet in a way
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that doesn't ask for silence, but creates it. This is
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where transformation lives. Not in loud flashes, but in centuries.
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In the push and pull of pressure, in the steady
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burn of buried heat. Rocks, you see, are never truly still.
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Even when they look like they've always been that way
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Mountains may seem unmoving But within them, beneath them Something
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ancient is always unfolding Imagine an old seabed Once soft
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with mud and shell Pressed slowly beneath a growing continent
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A quiet burial layer after layer stacked on top, like
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thick blankets that never stop arriving. The weight becomes unimaginable,
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and under all that weight, something strange begins to happen.
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The minerals inside the rock, tiny, invisible to our eyes,
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start to rearrange. Atoms shift. Bonds stretch. Crystals bend. They
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don't melt. They don't break. They endure. This is metamorphism,
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the slow rebirth of stone, not from outside forces, but
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from within. Slate, for instance, begins as shale, just soft
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mud hardened by time. But bury it deep enough, and
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press it long enough, and it changes. It flattens, tightens,
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gains layers that shimmer like folded silk. It becomes something new,
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and yet, it remembers. Marble, too, tells a tale. It
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was once limestone, calcium and seashell, formed in calm oceans.
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But deep below, beneath the weight of mountains and the
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warmth of the mantle, the crystals inside the limestone began
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to dance. Slowly, softly, they grew large, clear, intertwined, and
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that old seafloor became marble, strong, elegant, cool to the touch.
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Michelangelo's David began as this, a block of ancient sea,
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reshaped by pressure, lifted to the surface, carved by human hands.
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We often think of art as creation, but sometimes, art
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is discovery, a chisel revealing what patience has already made.
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And then there is schist, a rock with a name
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that sounds like wind slipping through pine. Schist was once clay,
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but became layered and sparkling. Its minerals flattened like pages
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in a book. Hold it to the light, and it shimmers,
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not from polish, but from pressure. Every shine and schist
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is a memory of force, of being buried, of becoming.
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Even nice, yes, pronounced like nice, has a story etched
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in its stripes. It forms under such intense heat and
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pressure that its minerals segregate, light and dark layers, folded
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and banded like the ridges of an old fingerprint. To
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look at nice is to see the earth's slow breath,
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its expansion and contraction frozen in stone. But the pressure
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doesn't always come from depth. Sometimes it arrives sideways. You
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see the crust of the earth moves, not quickly, not
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like rivers or wind, but like the slow drift of
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ice in a quiet sea. Tectonic plates, massive slabs of rock, push, pull,
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slide and collide. And when they meet, they fold and
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crumple the land above them. Mountains rise. Valleys sink. Rocks shatter,
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slip or soften under stress. This is defamation. A word
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that sounds unpleasant, but really means the shape changes, because
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it has to. Under just the right pressure, rocks don't
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break apart. They flow. Yes, rocks can flow. Very slowly.
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Like clay with an impossibly long memory. Picture a boulder. Grey. Solid. Silent. Now,
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zoom in. Closer. Down to the level of its minerals.
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And imagine them, squeezed by the earth, rearranging themselves, into lines. waves, folds,
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even that boulder, firm beneath your feet, once moved like
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a sleeping breath. And over time, its edges softened, wind
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blew across its face, water carved small paths, freeze, thaw, freeze, thaw.
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The process is so slow, you'd miss it in a
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thousand lifetimes. But the rock notices. The rock responds. All
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of this, the deep heat, the immense weight, the geologic stretch,
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is not destruction. It's refinement. The earth doesn't break its rocks.
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It teaches them. And as rocks move through this long lesson,
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they remember each stage, each pressure, each pause. You might wonder,
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why does this matter? Why speak of pressure when you're
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trying to sleep? Because pressure isn't always the enemy. Sometimes,
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it's the sculptor. Sometimes, it's what helps things hold their shape.
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Even you, your bones, your heartbeat, your breath, are shaped
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by gentle pressures. The soft weight of gravity, the rhythm
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of lungs expanding, relaxing, the pressure of time guiding you forward.
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We live in a world shaped by invisible hands, and
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so do rocks. They endure what they cannot change, and
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in doing so, they become something new, not in a flash,
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but in a hush. So let this moment be your
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soft stone layer, this breath your sediment, this quiet your
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mountain's base. You are becoming, even in stillness, even in rest.
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Let the pressure of the pillow beneath your head remind
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you of the earth's gentle weight. Let your limbs grow
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warm and heavy. Let your thoughts fold, like mica and schist,
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shimmering softly under layers of peace. And as you sink, remember,
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you don't need to rush. Not everything beautiful happens quickly.
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Some things like marble, like you, are shaped by time
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and become more radiant because of what they've endured. Let's
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come back up now. Not all the way to the sky,
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but just above the roots, where grass touches stone and
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time speaks in a quieter tone. You've heard of rocks
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being born? From fire, from pressure, from the weight of
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the earth's long breath. But not all change happens deep below.
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Some of it happens here, on the surface, where wind hums,
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where rain walks softly, where sunlight and frost take turns
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at the sculptor's bench. This is where erosion lives. The
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slowest artist you've never seen. Erosion doesn't crash or roar.
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It whispers. A breeze, brushing a canyon wall. A raindrop,
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tapping a pebble. A single grain of sand, carried in
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the folds of wind. At first, it looks like nothing.
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A scratch. A line. A shift too small for the eye.
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But wait long enough. A hundred years, a thousand, and
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a mountain becomes a memory. A boulder becomes a story
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in the dust. Erosion is not destruction. It's revision. It
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rewrites the shape of stone, softens its edges, and invites
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it to become part of something new. Picture a cliff. Jagged, sharp.
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Its face is stern, unwelcoming. Now returns centuries later. Wind
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has combed its surface. Rain has run down its cracks.
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Plants have nudged their way into its smallest folds. That
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same cliff now sighs. Rounded edges. Streaks of rust from iron.
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Small caves shaped by patience. It has been changed, not
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by force, but by presence. Even water so gentle can
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carve a path through granite, given time, always. time. Think
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of the Grand Canyon, a river with no voice, carved
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a canyon with no equal, not in a year, not
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in a hundred, but grain by grain, layer by layer,
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until walls of stone stood like frozen waves, each line
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a chapter, each shadow a lullaby, and just as water carves,
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so does ice. In winter, water seeps into cracks.
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Speaker 2: It waits.
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Speaker 1: Then, when the temperature falls, it expands. With quiet power.
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The rock resists, but can't hold. Not against this soft,
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persistent guest. A fracture. Then another. Then, slowly, the rock yields. Freeze.
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Tess Thor. Freeze. Tess Thor. Again and again. The rhythm
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of seasons becomes the rhythm of sculpture. and a jagged
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cliff becomes gravel, becomes sand, becomes soil. Snow, too, lends
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a hand. Glaciers. those slow gleaming rivers of ice move
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like sleeping giants they press and drag stone across stone
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grinding valleys into being the fjords of Norway the deep
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lakes of Canada the soft hills of New Zealand they
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were all gifts from ice long after the flames had cooled.
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And then there is the wind. It's easy to forget
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wind has hands, but it does. Invisible ones. It lifts dust,
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nudges sand, shapes dunes like ocean waves frozen in mid-breath.
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In deserts, rocks wear wind like a veil, their surfaces
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carved into ridges and hollows, lines so delicate they look painted.
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Some stones, like ventifacts, have faces shaped entirely by wind,
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sharp edges, smooth planes, geometry gifted by air alone. And
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above all this, the sun watches quietly. It heats the
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stone during the day and lets it cool at night.
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Over time, this expansion and contraction weakens the outer layers.
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They flake, they peel, like pages turning on their own,
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And as the outer skin of the rock falls away,
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a newer face emerges, one that has been waiting, silently,
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just beneath the surface. But erosion is not only a
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solitary act. Sometimes, life joins the dance. Tiny roots find
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a home in cracks. They grow, split the stone a
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little wider, then settle in again. Lichens those ancient green-grey smudges,
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cling to surfaces, and slowly break down minerals, turning rock
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into dust, without ever saying a word. Even we humans
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are part of this sculpture. We quarry, we cut, we shape,
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and sometimes we forget how long it took for that
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slab of stone to find its form. But even without us,
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the earth would keep sculpting. It always has. Think of
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the stones on a riverbed. Smooth, Rounded, worn soft by
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the endless passing of water. Each one once had edges,
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but the river took them gently. Now they rest, cool
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beneath the surface, shaped by a thousand quiet touches. And
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that's the lesson of the surface story. Change doesn't have
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to be sudden. It can be slow. It can be soft.
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It can arrive like morning light, and still leave everything transformed.
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So when you feel worn down, by days, by thoughts,
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by invisible winds, I remember the stones. They are shaped
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by what touches them. But they are not broken. They
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become smoother, wiser, more open to the next moment. Let
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yourself be a river stone tonight. Let the pressure go.
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Let the sharp edges soften. Let your breathing round you.
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And know that every exhale is a kind of erosion
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removing what no longer needs to stay. Even the hardest
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parts of you can be softened by time and patience
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and the hush of a gentle world. You are not
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alone in this slow transformation. The mountains understand. The canyon
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walls nod in silence. The river continues, always, towards something wider.
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And as your eyes grow heavier and the air around
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you stills, Let your body settle, like a stone under moonlight.
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Tomorrow will shape you again. But for now, you are
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simply resting, like sandstone beneath stars, like granite after rain,
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still beautiful, becoming. If you've ever held a small stone
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up to the light, turned it in your palm, watched
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a glimmer, a flicker, a surprise of colour peek through
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the surface, You've touched the secret side of rocks. Because
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some stones don't just hold weight. They hold light. Beneath
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the greys and browns of ordinary rock, there lives a
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quieter beauty. One that doesn't shout to be seen, but
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waits patiently to be found. Tonight, let's go looking for
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the light buried in the dark. Let's walk deeper not
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into pressure this time, but into silence. Cool silence. Like
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the air inside a cave you've never been in before,
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down here, in the still places of the earth, crystals
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begin to grow. Slowly, quietly, and with a kind of
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grace that only time understands. They begin with a solution,
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not an answer, but a literal solution. Water rich with minerals,
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moving gently through cracks and hollow spaces beneath the ground.
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Over time, longer than lifetimes, the water slows. It pauses.
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And in that pause, minerals begin to gather. They don't rush.
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They arrange themselves, atom by atom, into perfect, repeating patterns.
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This is how crystals are born. Clear quartz, pointed like
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frozen flame. Amethyst, with its gentle violet glow. Citrine. Yellow
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has captured sunlight. Each crystal, a memory of stillness and chemistry,
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grown in darkness, so that one day it might catch
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a bit of Sunday. These stones don't begin beautiful. They're
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hidden in rough rock, coated, enclosed, overlooked. It takes a cut,
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a polish, a slow turning under a curious eye to
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let their inner light be seen. And yet, they were
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always shining, even when no one was looking. There's something
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humbling about that. Take garnet, for example, often found in
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metamorphic rocks, formed under pressure, that would undo almost anything else.
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It's red like embers. Not the loud red of neon signs,
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but the deep, smouldering hue of coals that warm the
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heart of winter. Or olivine, a crystal born of fire,
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found in volcanic rock, green like moss on ancient stone,
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or light caught in a forest's early morning breath. Then
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there's tourmaline, a stone of many colours, formed when elements
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dance together in just the right way, a little iron,
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a little manganese, a touch of lithium, and suddenly you
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have pinks, greens, even electric blues, and all of them
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grew in silence. all of them waited, sometimes for millions
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of years, to be revealed. It makes you wonder, how
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many things, how many people, hold beauty like that? Unseen. Unhurried.
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Complete in their waiting. And some of these hidden lights,
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they are so rare, they barely seem real. Like opal.
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Not a crystal in the strictest sense, but a mineraloid,
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a structure more fluid, more chaotic. Yet in that chaos, colour,
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tiny spheres inside opal scatter light, in such a way
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that entire rainbows flicker as you tilt it. It doesn't
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glow with its own power. It reflects ours, the light
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we bring to it. Or diamond, the hardest natural substance
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on earth, yet born of carbon, the same element that
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forms soot, graphite and life. Pressed under impossible weight and
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extraordinary heat, carbon transforms into a gem so clear it
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can vanish in sunlight. People say diamonds are forever, but
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what they really are is patient. Then there's lapis lazuli,
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a deep celestial blue dotted with flecks of gold pyrite,
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like stars scattered across the night sky. Ancient Egyptians believed
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it was the stone of heaven, They ground it into pigment,
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painted the eyelids of queens, and buried it with their dead,
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to light the way into the afterlife. It wasn't just beauty.
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It was belonging to something eternal, something beyond. And in
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all these stones, the gems, the crystals, the rare colours
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of earth, there is a whisper of alchemy. Not turning
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lead into gold, but turning time into brilliance, turning pressure
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into colour turning darkness into something that glows. You don't
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need to own these stones to know their lesson. Sometimes
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the most beautiful things grow slowly, deep below, where no
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one sees. Sometimes the shine comes not from being polished,
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but from surviving. So tonight, as you lie still, imagine
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the world beneath you, not just heavy and dark, but
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alive with quiet colour. In caves, no one has walked.
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In mountains, no one has climbed. light is still being born,
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crystal by crystal, shape by shape, colour by colour. Even now,
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the earth is still dreaming in stone, and maybe you
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are too. Maybe, as your thoughts begin to fade, and
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your breathing finds its gentle rhythm A part of you
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is growing something quiet inside. A kind of buried light.
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A clarity. A softness. A truth that needs no stage.
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Let it grow. No rush. No polish needed. Just time.
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Just stillness. Just sleep. And one day, maybe soon, maybe
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long from now, someone will turn you gently in their
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hand and see a glimmer they never expected. a spark
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born in silence, and they'll know you've held light. This
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whole time, some rocks are quiet, and some, remember, not
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just the weight of mountains or the touch of rain,
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but the brushing wing of an insect that once flew
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under a sky now forgotten, the slow crawl of a
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trilobite across a muddy seafloor, the fall of a leaf
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from a tree that no longer exists. These are the
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rocks that carry memory, the kind that doesn't fade, the
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kind that becomes fossil. Tonight, let's lie still and listen
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to the stories frozen in stone. Because once, long ago,
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the world was louder. Birds that no longer sing, called
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to skies that looked just the same. Seas teemed with
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creatures without bones, without names, that lived and died, and vanished.
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Speaker 2: Almost.
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Speaker 1: Almost. Because some didn't quite disappear. Some remained. Not in flesh.
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Not in spirit. But in form, captured in rock. Fossils
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are not remains. They are reflections. Echoes. The gentle outline
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of what once was. And they form in the slowest
31:54
way possible. Imagine a creature. A fish, perhaps, that lived
32:00
its life in the hush of a shallow sea. One day,
32:04
its body settles into the soft sediment. Not eaten. Not
32:09
washed away. Just left. Slowly, the mud covers it. Layer
32:16
after layer.
32:17
Speaker 2: No air.
32:19
Speaker 1: No movement. Only stillness. And in that stillness, something beautiful begins.
32:26
Minerals seep in. Tiny grains, molecule by molecule, replace what
32:32
was soft with what is solid. Bone becomes stone. Form
32:38
becomes fossil. And after millions of years, tectonic lift, erosion, discovery,
32:45
that shape finds the sunlight again. The fish never knew
32:49
it would be remembered. But it is. Some fossils are
32:53
full skeletons. Some are just imprints. A ripple of skin.
32:59
A feather pressed into ash. A shell curled like a sigh.
33:04
Others are even smaller. Pollen grains, spores, the shapes of
33:09
ancient plankton. Whole calendars of the Earth's history, written in
33:14
the language of dust. The oldest fossils we've found are
33:18
over 3.5 billion years old. Bacteria. Simple life. Tiny architects
33:25
of the world to come, they left behind stromatolites, layered
33:30
mounds made from their sticky colonies, that now sit quiet
33:34
in deserts and coasts, like time capsules from a forgotten age,
33:39
and then came trilobites, little armoured creatures, like underwater beetles,
33:45
who crawled along ancient sea floors for 270 million years,
33:52
longer than the dinosaurs. longer than us. Their fossils are everywhere, curved, segmented, precise,
34:01
like jewellery carved by patients, and the dinosaurs, of course.
34:06
The giants who walked the earth when the world felt
34:09
wide and wild. Their bones have turned to stone, but
34:13
their posture still speaks. A curved neck, a tilted jaw,
34:19
a tiny claw curled in rest. We learn from their silence.
34:24
We listen to their shape. But fossils aren't only of
34:27
the grand or strange. Some are gentle. A leaf, caught
34:32
in volcanic ash. A seed, blackened but whole. A mammoth's tooth,
34:39
worn down by chewing ancient grass. Each fossil is a message.
34:44
I was here.
34:46
Speaker 2: I lived.
34:47
Speaker 1: I touched the world, and the world remembered me. Not
34:51
every living thing becomes a fossil. In fact, most don't.
34:55
To fossilise, a life must meet the Earth in just
34:58
the right way. A gentle burial, a still environment, the
35:03
perfect balance of chemistry and chance. It's a rare kind
35:07
of immortality. But the fossils that do survive change us.
35:13
They build timelines. They bridge eras. They help us see
35:18
not just what lived, but how the world lived around them.
35:22
Fossils tell us of ancient climates, of shifting continents, of
35:27
extinction and rebirth. They show us that the earth has
35:31
always been alive, even when it looked asleep. And in
35:35
some stones, life left not only shape, but shimmer, amber,
35:41
fossilised tree resin, golden and translucent, formed from the tears
35:46
of trees, millions of years ago. Inside it, A mosquito.
35:53
A flower petal. A trapped breath of ancient air. Amber
35:57
doesn't just hold fossils. It holds moments. Whole seconds sealed
36:02
in light. To hold amber in your hand is to
36:06
touch a memory that never dissolved. There's something comforting about that.
36:11
That a moment, a life, a single step or wingbeat
36:16
could last so long. Could sleep in stone forever. and
36:21
wake again, in the palm of a wandering human. We
36:25
find fossils in cliffs, in deserts, in the pages of stone,
36:30
written by rivers and time. And we don't just collect them.
36:35
We ask them. We ask what the world was. We
36:39
ask what we are. And they answer, quietly, but clearly.
36:44
They say, change is natural. Death is not an end.
36:49
everything leaves something behind, even if it's only shape, even
36:54
if it's only stillness. So tonight, as you lie still,
36:59
think of the body you inhabit, bones, breath, skin, and
37:05
how it too may one day rest in the earth,
37:08
not as something lost, but as something returned, a part
37:12
of a longer memory, a thread in the earth's great quilt.
37:17
Let that thought be peaceful. Let it lighten you, not
37:21
weigh you down. You are part of this story. You
37:25
walk above fossils every day. Your steps echo on the
37:28
backs of trilobites and fern leaves and creatures that once
37:32
blinked at ancient moons. They do not mind. They are
37:36
glad to be remembered. And if ever you feel small, insignificant, forgotten,
37:43
hold a fossil in your hand. Remember, that fish, that feather,
37:49
That shell was not meant to last. But it did.
37:53
So might you. You may not be carved in stone.
37:57
But the love you give, the kindness you show, the
38:01
breath you exhale under the stars, all of it becomes
38:05
part of the record. The quiet earth sees. The soft
38:09
stone listens. And time remembers more than we think. Now rest.
38:15
Let your body be still. Let the earth hold you
38:18
like it holds the others. With patience. With memory. With love.
38:24
Some rocks never leave the deep. They rest beneath your feet,
38:28
layered in silence, pressed by time. But some, they rise.
38:34
They are lifted, folded, cracked and thrust, until they reach
38:40
the sky. Tonight, let's drift upward. Not like a balloon.
38:45
Not like a bird. but like a mountain. Let's follow
38:49
stone as it rises, because the earth, though solid on
38:54
the outside, moves beneath its surface. It moves slowly, but
39:00
it moves. Its outer shell is not one single piece,
39:05
but many, enormous plates, floating on a soft, shifting layer
39:11
of hot rock beneath. These are tectonic plates, and where
39:16
they meet, the earth changes. Sometimes they slide past each other,
39:22
quiet friction. Sometimes one dives beneath the other, melting back
39:27
into the mantle. And sometimes... they push. Two continents, each
39:33
carrying billions of years of stone, drift toward one another
39:39
over millions of years. And when they meet, they don't pass.
39:44
They collide. The force is unimaginable. And because neither wants
39:49
to sink, They rise. Stone folds. Stone crumples. Stone lifts.
39:57
And a mountain is born. Not in a moment. Not
40:01
even in a millennium. But in an eternity of shoves
40:04
and pauses, earthquakes and stillness. The Himalayas were made this way.
40:10
When India pressed into Asia, they still rise a few
40:14
millimetres each year. Still growing. Still reaching. It's strange to
40:19
think of mountains as moving. They feel so permanent. So still.
40:25
But they are waves in the crust. Huge, frozen waves.
40:30
Made not by water, but by pressure from within. And
40:34
when you see a ridge, a cliff, a peak sharp
40:38
against the sky, you're seeing stone that was once far below.
40:43
You're seeing the Earth's bones. The Appalachian's. now worn and forested,
40:49
were once taller than the Rockies. But time is a
40:53
patient sculptor. It shaves even the mightiest down. That's the
40:58
mountain's twin fate. To rise, then fall. Not in tragedy,
41:05
but in rhythm. The same rhythm we live by. Breath in,
41:10
breath out, lift up, let go. Even as mountains rise,
41:16
they crack. Fractures form fault lines. Sometimes, the crust doesn't fold,
41:23
but breaks. One side lifts, the other sinks. This too
41:29
forms mountains. Block mountains, born not of gentle push, but
41:35
of sudden shift. The Sierra Nevada rose like this, thrust
41:39
from the earth in bold slabs. Lifted, not sculpted. Volcanoes
41:45
also build mountains. Layer by layer, lava spills and cools.
41:52
Ash falls, rains compact. Over years, eruptions raise new peaks.
41:58
Mount Fuji. Mount Rainier. Kilimanjaro. Fire-born giants. Their roots deep,
42:07
their tops touched by cloud. Some mountains form from beneath
42:11
the sea, like the Hawaiian Islands. Each one the tip
42:16
of a volcano. rising from the ocean floor. In all
42:20
of this, stone becomes sky. It becomes air's foundation, a
42:26
home for snow, a cradle for wind. And in these heights,
42:31
new stories begin. Rocks change. Cold, brittle air breaks them.
42:37
Glaciers carve deep valleys. Snow melts and feeds rivers, which
42:43
carry pieces of mountain back down to the sea. Mountains rise,
42:48
but they also give. They are the high point in
42:52
the earth's long circulation. Stone lifted, weathered, returned. Even in rest,
43:00
they move. Stand on a mountain peak. Feel the wind
43:04
rush past your skin. And you are standing on the
43:08
remains of ancient oceans, old forests, buried life that now
43:14
touches sky. Somewhere beneath your boots, fossils sleep. Crystals gleam
43:20
in hidden cracks. Water drips slowly through stone veins. The
43:25
mountain isn't just high, it's deep. You are held by
43:29
more than gravity. You are held by history. And if
43:33
you close your eyes and listen, you can almost hear it.
43:38
The slow lift, the deep groan, the quiet strength of
43:43
rising stone. Mountains are not loud, they are not sudden,
43:48
but they are faithful. They rise because the earth wills it,
43:53
they remain because time holds them. And they fall, not
43:58
in failure, but in grace. To watch a mountain is
44:02
to watch a long life, full of lift and letting go,
44:06
full of tension, release, rebirth. So tonight, as you lie still,
44:14
let yourself become a mountain, Let your breath slow. Let
44:18
your body feel the pull of the earth. Let your
44:21
thoughts rise, then soften, like clouds rolling over a quiet peak.
44:27
There is strength in stillness. There is height in patience.
44:32
And there is wonder in remembering that stone can rise.
44:37
Even you, in your silence tonight, are rising, maybe not
44:42
in body, but in spirit, In thought. In clarity. Let
44:48
your mountain bones rest now. Let the world around you
44:52
shift and settle. Let dreams pass like weather. And sleep
44:57
come like snowfall. Soft, slow, covering everything in quiet light.
45:04
Time has many clocks. Some tick loudly. A wristwatch. A calendar.
45:11
The heartbeat you count when sleep feels far. But some
45:14
clocks don't tick at all. They grow. They settle. They layer.
45:20
And their hands are made of stone. Tonight, let's visit
45:24
those clocks. Let's walk through the garden of time that
45:28
grows not with sunlight, but with pressure and silence and patience.
45:35
Let's visit the rocks that tell time. Not by seconds,
45:39
but by ages. You see, the earth has a memory.
45:44
not like ours, fragmented and fleeting, but vast, structured, written
45:50
in layers. Everywhere you step, beneath soil and forest, beneath
45:55
sidewalks and rivers, there are pages of stone, stacked like
46:00
books in a buried library. These layers are called strata,
46:05
and they tell the story of time. Each stratum is
46:08
a chapter, a time when the sea was high, or
46:12
when ash rained from a volcano. or when a shallow
46:15
lake dried under the Sunday. You can see them in
46:18
canyon walls, horizontal bands of colour and texture. Each one
46:23
formed when sand settled, when silt rested, when life paused
46:28
long enough to leave a mark. And geologists, Earth's quiet readers,
46:35
have learned how to read these pages. They call it
46:38
the geologic timescale, not days, not centuries. but eons, eras, periods,
46:47
and epochs. The biggest chapters are eons. There are only four.
46:53
We live in the youngest, the Phanerozoic, the age of
46:57
visible life. Before that came the Proterozoic, when oxygen first
47:02
stirred the oceans. Before that, the Archean, when earth cooled
47:08
enough to form crust. And before even that, the Hadean,
47:13
Named for the underworld. A time of fire. Of chaos.
47:18
Of becoming. No rocks survive from the earliest part. The
47:22
planet was too young. Too molten. But some crystals remain.
47:28
Tiny zircons. Older than continents. They date back 4.4 billion years.
47:34
A whisper from the beginning. And, from those first crystals,
47:39
the story continues. The Earth forms crust. Life emerges in oceans.
47:46
Photosynthesis paints the sky blue, and the layers begin to build.
47:51
The Paleozoic era. The age of trilobites, coral reefs, and
47:56
the first forests. It ends with a great dying, the
48:01
Permian extinction. Almost all life disappears. Then the Mesozoic. Dinosaurs.
48:09
Warm seas. Feathers before flight. ended, too, by a falling star,
48:16
then the Cenozoic, our age, the rise of mammals, the
48:22
carving of ice, the birth of us, each chapter recorded
48:27
in stone. Ash becomes shale, seashells become limestone, sand becomes sandstone,
48:36
and in those layers, fossils, minerals, even the traces of
48:41
magnetic fields, locked in iron grains, pointing to where north
48:46
used to be. Some rocks even hold the earth's breath.
48:50
Tiny bubbles of ancient atmosphere, trapped in salt. What the
48:55
world once smelled like, tasted like, breathed. It's all there.
49:01
But the most poetic clocks are the unconformities, the missing pages,
49:08
places where time vanished. Maybe a mountain rose and eroded,
49:13
carrying away stone before it could settle. Maybe a flood
49:16
wiped clean the record. These gaps in stone are not mistakes.
49:22
They are silences. They tell us, not everything is meant
49:26
to be remembered. Some time slips through, just like us.
49:31
And yet, the story still continues. In the Grand Canyon,
49:36
you can place your hand on a wall and touch
49:39
a billion years. each layer stacked gently upon the last,
49:44
colours shifting from red to tan to grey, a painted timeline,
49:49
older than names. In cliffs across the world, you can
49:53
find the line, a thin, dark band that marks the
49:58
moment the asteroid fell, a black whisper in limestone, the
50:03
end of one world, the beginning of another, and high
50:07
in the Alps, rocks once buried at the bottom of
50:10
a sea. Now touch clouds. That's how far time moves things.
50:15
And it keeps moving. Even now, sediment gathers in lakes.
50:22
Volcanoes lay down new chapters. We are still writing the
50:26
Earth's diary. Grain by grain. Ash by ash. You are
50:32
part of that story. Every breath you take. Every step
50:36
you leave. Every structure you build. It's a note in
50:40
the next page. Most of it will vanish, but some
50:44
will stay. Some future hand may find a shard of
50:47
your time, a coin, a tooth, a trace of your breath,
50:53
pressed into stone. You will become part of the record,
50:57
part of the earth's long remembering. And what will the
51:00
stone say of you? That you were soft, that you
51:04
were kind, that you lived with curiosity and rested well.
51:09
That's enough. So tonight, As you rest, imagine your body
51:14
as part of that great garden. A layer in the soil,
51:18
a root in the memory, a whisper in the next age.
51:22
Let your breath slow. Let your limbs grow still. Let
51:27
time pass gently over you, like dust settling in a
51:31
quiet cave. You do not have to rush. The earth
51:35
never has. Everything that matters takes time. And in time,
51:41
You too will leave a mark, quiet, soft, but real.
51:46
You may never see the full garden, but your presence
51:50
helps it grow. Sleep well, timekeeper. Stone grows in silence.
51:56
And so do you. Stone has always been with us.
52:00
Before there were cities, before words had letters, before stories
52:05
had names, there were rocks. Rocks under our feet. Rocks
52:10
in our hands. rocks above us, keeping the rain and
52:14
wind away. They didn't speak, but they stayed. Tonight, let's
52:20
remember how stone became more than stone, how it became
52:24
shelter and tool and story, how it became home. The
52:30
first humans didn't build walls. They found them in caves
52:35
carved by water, in hollows formed by time. They gathered
52:39
near fire, and slept under ceilings of solid memory. These
52:44
stone caves weren't just shelter from the storm, they were
52:47
wombs of thought. Here, in the safety of rock, humans
52:52
learned to dream out loud. And on those walls, they
52:56
left marks, painted hands, red ochre deer, figures dancing beside
53:03
the flicker of flame, cave art, not just decoration, but
53:08
the first quiet proof That we wanted to be remembered.
53:12
We trusted stone. To hold our stories. And it did.
53:17
The caves of Lascaux. Chauvet. Altamira. Tens of thousands of
53:22
years old. Still whispering. Outside the caves. We didn't just
53:28
hide behind stone. We shaped it. We picked up rocks.
53:33
And struck them together. Flint. Obsidian. Chert. Sharp edges. Useful forms.
53:41
From these stones came blades, axes, arrowheads, tools that fed, protected,
53:49
and built. Stone was not gentle, but it obeyed. And
53:53
in our hands, it became extension. With stone, we opened animals.
53:59
We carved wood. We tilled soil. And with stone, we
54:04
learned to survive. This time in our story is called
54:07
the Stone Age. and it lasted far longer than any
54:11
age that followed. For millions of years, stone was the
54:16
greatest technology we knew. Even now, our smartphones hold rare
54:21
earth minerals, the modern echo of ancient stones. But stone
54:26
was never only for survival. It was also sacred. We
54:31
stacked stones into circles. We raised them into monoliths. We
54:35
built cairns to guide the lost, and pillars to mark
54:39
the dead. Stonehenge. Gobekli Tepe. Easter Island. Massive rocks, moved
54:48
without machines, set into place by will and wonder. Each one,
54:53
a question carved in weight. Who were we? What did
54:57
we believe? Why did we lift the earth? To reach
55:01
the sky? Even our temples were stone. Pyramids rising from
55:06
desert sands. Ziggurats in the fertile crescent. Stupas. Cathedrals. Mosques.
55:15
All of them anchored in the ground, as if reaching
55:18
towards something beyond it. Stone holds shape. So we trusted it.
55:23
To hold spirit. Gravestones, too.
55:27
Speaker 2: A name.
55:28
Speaker 1: A date. A quiet prayer, etched into granite. We write
55:33
our goodbyes in stone, so that time can't erase them.
55:37
We ask stone to remember, when we no longer can.
55:41
And still, stone shelters us. It's in our walls. Our countertops.
55:48
Our streets. Marble stairs beneath tired feet. Cobblestone alleys lit
55:54
by lanterns. Grainy sandstone in old village homes. Warm under
55:59
morning Sunday. We don't always notice it, but it holds us.
56:05
Even concrete. so modern, so mundane, is just crushed stone,
56:11
mixed with water, poured into new purpose. Stone adapted with us.
56:17
And in some places, it still speaks. Petroglyphs carved into
56:22
canyon walls, runes etched in basalt, symbols whose meanings have faded,
56:28
but whose presence remains. We may not know what they said,
56:32
but we know someone cared to say it. And the
56:35
stone listened. It always has. Sometimes, it listens with silence.
56:41
Other times, with echo. Have you ever shouted from a
56:45
rocky cliff? Or whispered in a stone chamber? The sound returns. Changed,
56:52
but still yours. As if the rock wants you to know.
56:55
I heard you. Even now. We stack stones as markers.
57:01
A pile on a hiking trail. A monument on a hill.
57:05
A sculpture in a garden. It's an old instinct to
57:09
place one stone atop another and call it meaning. There's
57:13
comfort in that. A way to say, I was here.
57:18
I built this.
57:19
Speaker 2: I remembered.
57:21
Speaker 1: Stone is not warm, but it is loyal. It doesn't bloom,
57:26
but it endures. It won't hold you, but it will
57:29
hold your weight. And in a world that changes so quickly,
57:33
stone offers stillness. So tonight, as you rest, imagine a
57:39
wall of cool rock behind you, protecting, unmoving, not to
57:45
trap you, but to keep the wind out, to carry
57:48
your voice longer, to give your dreams a quiet place
57:52
to unfold. You are safe here. You are part of
57:55
a long line of wanderers and workers, artists and builders,
58:01
who all knelt beside stone and said, stay with me.
58:06
And it did. Let your thoughts settle like dust in
58:09
a cave. Let your breath echo gently against ancient walls.
58:14
Let sleep come like a shadow at sundown spilling across
58:19
stone in warm, soft silence. You are held. You are home.
58:26
And the earth, with all its weight and wonder, is listening.
58:31
You might not think about rocks. When you make your coffee,
58:35
when you cross the street, or when you sit by
58:37
a window and watch the rain fall, but they're there, quiet, solid, familiar,
58:45
not as mountains now, or caves, or fossils, but as companions,
58:51
in the pockets of children, in the corners of gardens,
58:55
in the ring on your finger, in the foundation beneath
58:58
your bed. Tonight, let's return to the stones closest to you,
59:04
the ones that no longer seem mysterious, but still carry magic.
59:09
Let's meet your everyday rocks. Do you remember the first
59:12
stone you ever picked up? Maybe it was warm from
59:15
the sun, or speckled like an egg, or shaped just
59:19
right to skip across water. You turned it over in
59:22
your hand. Maybe you put it in your pocket. Maybe
59:26
you forgot it was there. But that moment, That simple
59:30
gesture is older than civilization. Because we are drawn to stones.
59:36
There's something about their weight, their stillness, their refusal to
59:41
change under pressure. They remind us of what stays. And
59:45
so we keep them. Children know this best. They collect
59:49
rocks like treasure, line them up on windowsills, hide them
59:53
in lunchboxes, give them names. A rock can be a friend.
59:59
A dragon egg. A wish. And who says they're wrong?
1:00:03
In Japan, some gardens are made only of stone. No flowers.
1:00:09
No colour. Just raked gravel, carefully placed rocks, and the
1:00:14
gentle hush of nothing extra. Zen gardens. They invite the
1:00:20
mind to quiet itself, to mirror the stillness of the stones.
1:00:25
Even in bustling cities, you can find stone beneath the noise,
1:00:29
paving streets, framing buildings, holding heat in the afternoon and
1:00:35
releasing it slowly at night. You walk on history without
1:00:40
realising it. And inside your home, stone may be closer
1:00:44
than you think. The ceramic mug in your hand, once clay,
1:00:50
now hardened by fire. The tile beneath your feet, a
1:00:54
polished story from underground. the marble countertop, the quartz watch,
1:01:00
the crystal on the shelf that catches the light just right.
1:01:05
Even your electronics. Inside them, rare earth minerals mined from
1:01:10
deep within the planet. You touch stone every day, and
1:01:14
stone touches you back. Some people carry a stone in
1:01:18
their pocket, just for comfort. A worry stone, smooth and oval,
1:01:24
with a thumb-sized dent worn from being held. Not because
1:01:28
it does anything, but because it doesn't. It stays cool.
1:01:33
It stays quiet. It reminds you to breathe. In healing traditions,
1:01:38
crystals are believed to hold energy. Amethyst for calm. Rose
1:01:43
quartz for love. Black tourmaline for protection. Whether or not
1:01:48
you believe in their powers, there's something soothing to about
1:01:53
the idea That the earth made something just to help
1:01:57
you rest. And stones are part of our celebrations too.
1:02:01
We give them as gifts. Engagement rings. Graduation pendants. Birthstones.
1:02:08
Tiny pieces of time. Assigned to the month you arrived.
1:02:13
They don't spoil. They don't fade. They wait. They say,
1:02:19
I was here long before you. I'll be here long after.
1:02:23
But right now, I belong to you. Even language remembers stone.
1:02:28
We say someone is grounded. We praise a person with
1:02:31
a solid heart. We admire rock-steady patience. We speak of
1:02:36
milestones in life and build our dreams on a bedrock
1:02:39
of values. Stone is the metaphor we return to when
1:02:44
we need to describe something strong, trustworthy, unchanging. And yet,
1:02:51
stone can also be playful. Think of games, Jacks. Marbles.
1:02:57
Skipping stones across a lake. Think of stacking flat rocks
1:03:01
into little towers. On riverbanks or forest trails. Just because
1:03:06
it feels good to balance one on top of the other.
1:03:09
That's not science. That's something softer. That's companionship. Even pets
1:03:16
sometimes have stones. A cat sunning itself on a slate floor.
1:03:21
A bird bathing in a shallow stone dish. turtles warming
1:03:25
on river rocks they know too stone holds heat stone
1:03:30
keeps them safe and sometimes stone is where we return
1:03:36
when we need to say goodbye a bench in a
1:03:38
cemetery a stone marker beneath a tree ashes scattered among
1:03:44
pebbles at the edge of the sea we give our
1:03:46
last moments to stone because we trust it not to
1:03:49
forget it doesn't blink it doesn't look away and in
1:03:54
some quiet way, it listens. So tonight, as you settle
1:03:59
into bed, think about the stones in your life. Not
1:04:03
the towering mountains, or the glowing gems, but the ones
1:04:08
closest to your skin. A stone from a walk, kept
1:04:12
in a drawer. A tile beneath your feet, cooled by
1:04:15
morning air. A crystal beside your pillow, placed there without
1:04:20
needing a reason. Let them ground you. Let them remind
1:04:25
you that you are part of the earth too. You
1:04:28
don't need to move quickly. You don't need to change.
1:04:32
Just be. Just rest. Let your body grow heavy, like
1:04:37
a stone warmed by the Sunday. Let your thoughts slow down,
1:04:42
like a pebble sinking gently into a calm stream. You
1:04:46
don't have to do anything else tonight. The world is
1:04:48
still spinning. The rocks are still waiting. And in their stillness,
1:04:54
You can find your own. There's a reason we sit
1:04:57
on stones to rest. Not because they're soft. Not because
1:05:01
they're warm. But because they're there. Constant. Dependable. Already holding
1:05:07
the weight of the world. What's one more weary body
1:05:10
to them? Tonight, let's sit together, you and I, on
1:05:15
this quiet, flat stone. Let's not climb. Let's not dig.
1:05:22
Let's just be. And listen, not to a voice from above,
1:05:27
but to a hum from below. Because if you've been
1:05:30
listening closely, you may have noticed rocks speak in a
1:05:35
different language, a language made of patience, of pressure, of
1:05:40
long silences, punctuated by small, faithful changes. They teach not
1:05:47
by explanation, but by example. And what do they teach?
1:05:52
They teach that strength doesn't need speed. A mountain doesn't rush.
1:05:57
It simply is. It stands, even when no one is watching.
1:06:02
Even when clouds cover its face, or erosion wears at
1:06:06
its edges. It does not fear change. It absorbs it,
1:06:11
and still it remains. They teach that everything, even the
1:06:16
hardest things, can soften over time. A jagged boulder becomes
1:06:21
a pebble. A pebble becomes sand, not through violence, but
1:06:26
through the gentle persistence of touch, of time, of trust.
1:06:32
They teach that memory is not about detail, but about imprint.
1:06:37
The fossils we find don't sing, they don't move, but
1:06:41
they remind us that something was, that something lived, and
1:06:45
that something, quiet and small, it was important enough to
1:06:51
leave a trace. They teach that beauty is not loud.
1:06:56
A geode doesn't show its sparkle until it's broken open.
1:07:01
A crystal grows in the dark, in stillness, away from eyes.
1:07:07
It doesn't need to be seen, to be complete. And
1:07:10
maybe most of all, stones teach us how to belong.
1:07:14
They don't try to be more than what they are.
1:07:17
They don't pretend. They don't perform. They sit. They support.
1:07:23
They remember. And in doing so, they hold the earth together.
1:07:28
You don't have to be brilliant to matter. You don't
1:07:31
have to shine. You just have to be real. To stay.
1:07:36
To endure. To offer your shape, your weight, your quiet presence,
1:07:42
and that's enough. Even in rest, you are part of something.
1:07:47
Even in stillness, you contribute to the story. Because the
1:07:51
truth is, We are all made of earth. Your bones
1:07:55
carry calcium, once carried by oceans. Your blood carries iron,
1:08:01
forged in the hearts of stars. The salt in your
1:08:05
tears has siblings in ancient seas. You are not just
1:08:09
resting on the earth tonight. You are resting with it.
1:08:13
And maybe, in some deep, wordless way, it is resting
1:08:18
with you. Let that thought settle into you. Like dust
1:08:22
into a canyon. You are allowed to rest. You are
1:08:26
meant to rest. Even the strongest structures need stillness. Even
1:08:31
stone sleeps. So go ahead. Loosen your grip. Let the
1:08:36
worries fall from your shoulders. Like crumbling cliff faces. Let
1:08:41
the tension wash out of you. Like rain smoothing a
1:08:45
rugged path. You don't have to carry the mountain tonight.
1:08:49
You can lie down beside it. Let your breath be slow.
1:08:53
Let your body grow heavy. Let this moment to be
1:08:57
the bedrock of your dreams. And if tomorrow... brings change,
1:09:01
if wind reshapes your plans, or rain wears down your edges,
1:09:06
I know that's okay. It's part of being here. Part
1:09:10
of belonging. You are not a mistake in the landscape.
1:09:14
You are part of its design. A stone on the trail.
1:09:18
A memory in the making. a shape that fits, and now,
1:09:22
gentle listener, as your eyes begin to close and your
1:09:26
thoughts become softer than moss on granite, know this, you
1:09:32
are held by the earth, by the night, by the
1:09:36
slow story of stone that has always been and will
1:09:40
always be. If this story brought you even a little peace,
1:09:45
a little stillness, a small space to rest in, you
1:09:49
are warmly invited to subscribe for more quiet science told slowly,
1:09:55
just like this. And if a particular rock, or fossil,
1:10:00
or moment in nature has ever stayed with you, share
1:10:04
it in the comments below. We read them like layers,
1:10:08
each one a trace, each one a beautiful mark of
1:10:12
your presence. Until next time, sleep well, grow slow. And know,
1:10:19
you belong. Good night.
1:11:03
Speaker 2: I love you.
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1:23:06
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Thank you. I love you. So, Thank you. Thank you.
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Speaker 2: Thank you. you Thank you. Thank you.
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Speaker 2: Thank you. So, Thank you.
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Speaker 2: So, Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for watching.
2:00:00
Thank you. Thank you. Amen.
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Speaker 3: Thank you. So, Thank you.
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Speaker 2: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
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Speaker 3: I love you.
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Speaker 2: You you you you.
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Speaker 3: Thank you.
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Speaker 2: Thank you.
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Speaker 3: I love you.
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Speaker 2: Thank you. Thank you. I love you.
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Speaker 3: I'm sorry. Thank you. Thank you.
2:23:24
Speaker 2: So, Thank you. So, Thank you.