I walked until the rain stopped. The clouds dissipated and I could see before me the precipice of time. I had been hungry; now I was cold. Wind was constant, blowing me back to the start of it all. No going back, nothing left but memories and ash. Faded green self-spun quilt – the lichen cover everything. The rock quivers under their thumb—one-hundred, two-hundred, three-hundred: the ages pass like tourists. The rock will give, turn to clay, mold to their will—Am I the lichen, or am I the rock?