Time is a sputtering lantern, a bruised child, a gray, flat-faced man with fists of concrete and legs like pistons. He has it in for dogs, which is one of his many cruel and inexplicable character traits.
Misunderstood and misrepresented throughout history, gussied up and dumbed down, the snaggle-toothed bastard is frequently outfitted with wings he'd never wear let alone learn to use. He merely smirks at clocks and every other so-called timepiece man has ever devised --foolish abstractions, he'd tell you if ever he deigned to speak; wholly inadequate and far too orderly to ever approximate the real thing.
He is a stutterer, a creature of fits and starts and the long pauses of an unorthodox and not entirely competent chess player. He doesn't have a rational bone in his body, nor could he be said to have ever had a thoughtful moment. He's as impulsive and reckless and irrational as the day he was born in a maelstrom.
He's a cold, plodding motherfucker, methodically unpredictable, a mess maker, back breaker, teeth kicker, heart wrecker. A connoisseur of ruins and a ruthless collector of forgotten debts.
He doesn't heal. He doesn't mend. He doesn't forgive. He doesn't forget. He doesn't fly. He doesn't tell. He's got it in for dogs.
It's been said that he wiggled out from under the thumb of God centuries ago and has been a lone wolf ever since.