Ceaselessly throbbing, pulsing, pounding, coursing over the verdant plane, a moment without end, monotony in the midst of random. The cold presence of the ghostly horses, incessantly drawing the ghost wagons onward, saturated the very air, the sharp screeching of the rusty axle seeming to propel the wagons forward with the force of its sound. The wind torn side boards rattled against the wooden frames, fated to do so forever. Through the cracked side windows of the carriages a faint glow and the occasional flicker of movement were the only signs of the creatures that had seen the same moment for hundreds of years. Never changing, yet growing always older. The marred planks and cracked boards symbolized a past event crucial, and yet in the wider scope of things, as seemingly insignificant as a loose pebble tumbling down the side of a mountain. The ghost wagons plunged onward, the fall off the cliff a thing of the distant past, a thing that made the present possible. Always onward it plunged, following the same course it always had. It raced against a moment it could not beat, continuing without the incentive of others. The fair faces of those who had died murmured to each other, in the suffocating darkness of the carriages. The supply wagons trailing behind carried fresh food that had long since returned to the earth, weapons that had rusted into oblivion, and things that were no more. The plains turned rockier, causing the carriages to sway from side to side, yet the ghosts did not mind, having been long since lost in a world that once was. Over a few hours, the terrain turned into dry earth dotted with the occasional shrub or cacti . Small hills rose in the distance, yet the tireless horses were not slowed as they charged along the well-worn trail. With an almost uncanny dexterity they maneuvered around any obstacle blocking their way, always onward, never ending. As the first rays of dawn shone through the air, they simply passed through the ghost wagons, giving their translucent appearances an orange glow. The carriages rushed on through the light. They plunged down the hills and into canyon country. As the wheels spun around they sent small rocks careening down the sides of a steep walled canyon, mere inches away from the ghost wagons. Undaunted by the unstable footing, the horses charged along. The carriages were almost past the canyon, almost safe. A hoof slid, lives ended. The carriages slid over the edge in a free fall, the screams of the ghosts echoing off the canyon walls, as they had done for ages. As the carriages smashed into a pile of boulders the passengers were flung against the interior of the wagons, breaking bones, ending lives. The horses, eyes wide, lasted only a moment longer, then faded into oblivion. Silence, the pure black of death, and then a light illumined the dark, the light of the ceaseless cycle. Throbbing, pulsing, pounding, coursing over the verdant plane, a moment without end, monotony in the midst of random.