| A Yurble stole my cinnamon roll! |
Circulation: 193,800,643 |
Issue: 715 | 15th day of Sleeping, Y18 |
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Elsewhere
by twillieblossom
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 We Ordinary Few
They stood there, in the pouring rain, waiting for the end of the world. It was always the end of the world, in a child’s eye. A year lived to a five year old is a millennia, a day a decade of turbulence and revolution. Time moves like molasses when one’s running through their fathers’ poppy garden at the speed of sound, the most minor changes an earthquake rocking the world out of orbit. This change was anything but minor.
by cherishtwilight |
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