The wheel of time pays little mind to the trappings of ephemeral life. Its burden is the long game. Tireless at work upon the great mill of the universe grinding all back to the stardust from whence we came. The wheel’s is a blind justice—never to grant favor, never put off its task—the laws of physics its only master. As the arrow of time points forward the blossom of our creation journeys back to dust, and onward the mill turns. On and on; working, grinding, rounding. Bringing wear to young life as it works stone to pebble to sand to dust. A spinning wheel of entropy eroding us back to our most basic of constituent parts. This is the game to which we have been cast. Forever turning. Forever worked upon at the cosmic millstone until we are cast back together shone in new light.
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