Time drains on into the midst of eternity. Her only evidence of existence simply rots in the demented memories of yesteryear. The moments of love and war become untouchable as they slowly glide like mythical beings into the past of which we continuously look back upon. Her whispers of the future caress the soft breezes that brush along those of the present, leaving them in a curious state of what the next second would bring, the next minute, the next hour, the next day. Hell, some of them probably dream of what shall become of this planet in the next week, month, and year. And then the time will increase to five years, ten years, and soon enough, like the slow amblings of a box turtle, we will come to wonder what shall happen when a century has passed. Time is such a beautiful thing in all her splendid glory and light. But when the shadows of death and deceit slowly begin to curl their wretched fingers around our beloved time of good, we soon realize in that very moment, that we should have paid more attention to the last butterfly we saw flutter by in joy. Or the last rose that came to bloom. And as darkness comes with a sickening demise, we wish that we had paid more attention to the last sunset we witnessed. Only when darkness falls, do we realize the wonderfulness of it all.

And He stood there; the walking enmity of the Mountains. He sensed her approach. He sensed her equanimity, her intrepidity, and it was pulchritude. His cynical stare leered from Adrian to the mare that was clearly sending silent threats towards Tori. Shazaam knew better then to believe Tori had done it first, for she wasn’t the type. And so with a mirthful hiss, his voice poured into the silent atmosphere and was accented with irony. How ignorant this pathetic little mare was.