niome13665

I am an immortal without a role. Cold, unfeeling, and endless. My ‘clock’ stopped turning hundreds of years ago, but still I toil on. Walking, wondering, undying…
Why am I like this?
Why don’t I bleed?
When will it end?
Lonely and distant, I watch as those around me grow old and die, and I laugh; for I cannot cry – my tears stopped before my clock did.
My voice a mere whisper on the wind calls out through the night – awaiting an answer.
Unlike the others I have no purpose and continue to wonder in endless entropy.