A lone hand ascends skyward. Through the black burial shroud it felt the heat of the sun and the chill of the dark moon. A hand soaked in blood heavy with the world in its palm. He struggled to remember when he felt worse winds nip at him- Lost to the passing of the years he supposes. Centuries dripping by; reaper always nipping at his devil tail. The shifting of the common parlance and the dotting of points around what were the great nations and the clash and sparks of metal and shapes of weapons and the crowns of kings and the everchanging names and titles and the way blood trickled- Always changing, swapping, shifting, always in the same stagnant manner. Blood crashing across continents in step with the moon, the way iron turned to ash, the handing over and dropping of crowns, and the way particles played with each other. A black spec on a pale spark spinning around just another fading star. The spark of birth inevitably leads to a long fall. He supposed- He should just keep at it.