The lake is up. There's not much time left.
There never was that much time at all.
Some species claim time doesn't exist.
If not, it's in really short supply,
A shame, since it's all there ever is.
The blue beast sits hunched in the downpour,
Unsure of whether to carry on
Until broken down completely or
To anticipate nonexistence
By rushing to the devious void.
"Oh now," grunts the grumbling, powerful
Monster that could crush smaller creatures,
"We have become tiny things
Going around and around the ground,
Weaving through our own bones ceaselessly."