assassin

Today stalks and kills Yesterday. Tomorrow, perhaps even more vicious, will dispense of Today in the same cruel manner. Time is an assassin, a murderer, a butcher.

By typing this out I am, in a sense, slipping into the role of butcher, myself. I have destroyed an idea. An idea that should have, perhaps, remained in my head, pure and unsullied. Now, put into type, it is corrupt, contaminated, distorted. What choice did I have though? Should I allow all ideas to remain in my head where they are susceptible to the vicious undoings of Time, allowing them to unravel, deteriorate, and decay as the days, weeks, months, and years slip by?

If only you could have seen her there - my idea, flawless and unclouded, frolicking in the sanctuary of my imagination. She was beautiful, then.

It's a chilly moonlit night, just before the witching hour, and you stand at one end of a crumbling stone bridge. You see two cloaked figures near the other side; one of the figures is walking briskly up behind the other. There's something menacing in his body language. You want to call out a warning, but the water rushing below you, filling your ears, also sweeps away your words.

There's a silvery flash as a blade is drawn from Tomorrow's cloak.

There's a silvery flash as a blade is quickly plunged into the back of Today.

There's a silvery flash as a blade is tossed into the river below.

Moira tosses in her sleep. Tonight she dreams of nothing.