Life is a fucking joke. Shifting through the sands of time, like eternity can last only one small second in your mind. Flipping through the pages of an old, worn book that tells the story of millions ...
... it's two pages long.
The print is large but the book seems so small, clutched by a little boy of six who knows everything about everyone because he read the book fifty million times over.
He read about wars, lovers, peace, hatred, sadness ... life. All in a few minutes. Just a few minutes of his wasting day, as the sands of his life drift slowly out of a large jar by his feet that has his name sketched in red blood on the front. He picks up the fallen sand and puts it back in, with hopes that by doing so, his life would last a little longer, but this only makes his life shorter. So he's stopped caring about the sand and just stands there, holding onto the book of time, a blank expression on his pale face.
He's seen more than any child the age of six ever should but he found this book and pasted it to his mind; threaded the needle and fished it through his right hand, attaching himself to the book. Dry blood clings from his now old and worn hand; they're the first to age. His right hand looks that of an old man's who has been through far worse and now holds the weight of time, not the world (time is much heavier), in the palm of what would look to be an eighty-year-old's hand. He's counting down the minutes until it falls completely off his wrist and to the floor. When that day comes, he'll do his best to weave some more thread and lace himself with the book once more; maybe on his leg this time or his still young shoulder.
Until that day comes, he just waits, ages, and watches as other people's lives slip helplessly and soundlessly into a great abyss of forever.
