• Water. Fire. Earth. Sand.

    I stood upon those pearly shores, with the toga'd men. We watched the sun set into the sea, and looked out upon the tongues of green water, lapping at young Greece's shores. How is it that Sol, that heavenly fire, could descend into the sea? What is it? It is Fire. What is the sea? It is Water. What are the heavens above us, and those dancing clouds? They are Air. And what of us, grounded to these green and pleasant land, that the gods have blessed and the fay have kept? We are of Earth...

    I lie on the bed, as the priest stabs once more at the parchment with renewed energy. He does not rest, for the task ahead is to great, and the Power is strong within him. It crashes down, another verse desperatly scribbled. He stops... laughs... and runs outside to fall along the floor, to pray. Inside, the Torah lies finished.

    I sat on the open window's sill, smiling slightly, with the hills and fields behind me, and the sky above my head. With canvas and with brush, Leanardo paints. He works fervently, as though This is it, this shall be his greatest work. The light dims, but the day does not fade, and still he creates. I shall alwayssit with it, once it is completed, and care for it as it is taken from the empty home Poor Artist, and graces Paris, and slowly joins the dust, throughout time itself, as someone must guard the ideas and the creations which deserve to live.

    At least, until another race starts to generate them once more