Melbourne opened his mouth to speak to this thing called time, which he could not see but that the Psychic spoke so fondly of. Night drifted out like cancerous smoke and within it hid the Seer's story, and it poured like tears from his stolen eyes and said;

The dawn, drawn with the beauty and the colors of passion,
In which the boy wakes in a fever, fueled by emotions,
For his mind, like most minds of young men, was tucked firmly under the belt where yearnings and feelings burn out of control,
And he forged his path, wielding a sword named ambition and a shield named naivety.

The midday, where all is shown in it's true colors and without shade to hide secrets,
In which the young man stood contemplating his reflection and questioned his worth,
For he was smart enough to understand the workings of the world, but not yet wise enough to know his place in it,
Too young to be taken seriously and too old to be taken care of.

The dusk, washed dark and gray with age and regrets,
In which the old man slept, still as a stone in the flow of time
The waters carving him frail, carrying his life away like dust
Piece by piece by piece
Until all is gone and new life is born.


The story ended and Melbourne was puzzled, for nothing came of it but a string pulled from the darkness of his shadow.

There are some things we cannot take, the Sun whispered to her only son, things we cannot stop. Time is an entity much bigger than even I can perceive, and each of us holds within us only a thread of it. We may choose which way to go and how to weave ourselves in, but it is only later that we understand how our actions affect the actions of all others, and only then can we see the patterns we've woven and the outcomes they have caused.