She is still. Her hollow eyes lack the spark of purpose. Her delicate face is devoid of all emotion. Her chest does not move with the gentle rise and fall of the breath that keeps us going, keeps us moving. The only sign that she is alive is the tap of her foot. Methodically, detachedly, it just keeps tapping…tapping. And all else ceases to exist, and the wheels of life stop turning, and sands of time blow away, and the nothingness around her denies her very existence, and she is still. Time has stopped. She is alone.
A figure emerges from the oblivion, and Fate approaches. She shrinks back, afraid. Above all, she fears losing control. She does not want to be a pawn in a bigger configuration, she does not want to, does not want to.
And suddenly, all of eternity is one, and we are here, and we are there, and all creation is ecstatic in its joined exhilaration, and as the world thrives as one, as our very blood sings, she, she is forgotten. But the steady beat of her foot keeps tapping...tapping...
A figure emerges from the oblivion, and Fate approaches. She shrinks back, afraid. Above all, she fears losing control. She does not want to be a pawn in a bigger configuration, she does not want to, does not want to.
And suddenly, all of eternity is one, and we are here, and we are there, and all creation is ecstatic in its joined exhilaration, and as the world thrives as one, as our very blood sings, she, she is forgotten. But the steady beat of her foot keeps tapping...tapping...
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