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.