110 His Painful Immaturity

A lone boy silently observed the world atop a bed of passing clouds and hummed an old, familiar tune he hadn't sung in ages.

It looked different to him now. Much smaller and more fragile. Where he had once seen majestic peaks, valleys, forests, and rivers, he now saw the impasto of the world, the beautiful texture of the physical world.

He turned his head toward the ever-distant North. The effects of his actions had forever changed it. The endless winter that had once plagued the land had been dispelled. Spring had finally come for the North after nearly four thousand years of winter, thanks to his meddling.

But that wasn't what he was interested in. He gazed at a certain area of deceased, crumbling land. That parcel of joyless earth would never harbor life again.