A childhood belief about landscape

At one point in my pre-pre-adolescence (e.g. seven, eight, nine years old), I had a distinct interest in nature. I'd spend hours outside, just staring at stuff. One of the things I really admired was rocks -- I'd throw them as hard as I could against the sidewalk to crack them open, I'd paint them, I'd name them, I'd put them in a tub of water to see if they'd turn all smooth like river rocks. I was always looking for the perfect rock, so I could carry it around and say, "look, I've found the perfect rock". But finally, after realizing that this perfect rock must be in another state or country, I decided I should just make my own rock. So I gathered a bit of mud, rolled it into a ball, shaped it a bit, shaped it a bit more because I wanted it to be absolutely 100% perfect, then I set it outside on the sun-heated concrete retaining wall. I'd sit by that bit of mud for hours at a time, waiting for that glorious moment when the sun dried it up enough that it'd turn into my wonderful rock. Alas, though, when it did become as dry as it could, my perfect rock merely crumbled up and broke my spirits. However, the next day I was right back out there, molding another one.