Let me speak of the way the world works. Let me show you the slow slip, the subtle slide of simplicity:

The world is not here to please you. It is not here to fetch your slippers. It is not here to placate you, to keep your solitude at bay.

It was a lesson he'd learned long ago, watching the waves scrape at the shores of the world, of time. The latter he had too much of, the former he was constantly devouring. Bylah knew the signs, the soft little symbols that life, in it's greatness, left behind for him to see.

Some made the drastic mistake of thinking that eyes like his, filled with fire, were good for nothing but destruction, for swallowing stars and making the seas boil. It never worked out that way.

Perhaps it would've been better if it had.

Perhaps it would've been better if he could've watched from a distance, as all good fires are meant to be seen: sure, they're beautiful...but they're meant to be appreciated from afar. Fire, after all, burns.

Eventually, they all forgot. It was the bane of all existence: memories are nothing more than fleeting. Time, inevitably, marches on, stupid and dumb in its singularity. Bylah watched them move ahead, even as he stayed in place, incapable of advancing beyond the likes of them.

He was constantly Yesterday, cleaning up the messes made by the masses, who knew no better than what they could see in front of their own nose.

They could be Tomorrow no more than he could be Today.