Short. Pesky Flies

Pesky flies. Buzzards, circling, waiting for a single mistake. Yearning for a simple misstep to send me tumbling, plummeting to the spikes below. They wish to feast upon my corpse and gain immortality.

I will not misstep, nor will I falter. Mountains fall short of my stubbornness.

No thing nor construct of man could ever impede my march.

The four winds and seven seas will not erode my base.

I am Time.

The unstoppable machine of cyclic life and death, creation and destruction.

Stand not in my way.