Sitting upon the floor in my desolated apartment, all the lights are turned off, the soft green amber glow from the clock radiating a small hum the only sound in the apartment. The echoes of time ringing in my ears, questions of time are in my mind. Is love a myth as old as time, a myth passed down from the ages to help us cope with the nothingness; meaningless. Or is it an answer that time as made for us? Was time bored when it created the gods the men that walk its plains, are we but a pawn in a game of boredom?
