It was a crime to be happy.
The Architect, growing tired, sat upon his unfinished work, looking down (or up) at the earth. What else could he do? He had many more ideas, but, by this time, they did not seem to add any true value. He scratched his chin. He watched his tools float about.
Step by step, inch by inch, time paced around my mangled body. It circled me, slowly, inspecting the scene, taking inventory.
You see, sometimes the only way to move the world is to let the world move you.
