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Description
He looks on across sprawling fields
of futures and possibilities.

Behind him is a pin prick--the past. The
linear thing that happened.

It's there, like a root, underground,
surrounded by dirt and worms.

It's there, bursting from seed and
pressing to the surface. Always pressing

into the fields.

The past is the root. We are the tree.
The fields make up the rest.

And the fields are where the
magic happens. They're a playground of sorts.

Full of possibilities. Governed by illusions.
Ruled by nothing that can be controlled.

Dangerous and deadly and too
big to comprehend.

So he looks across them all, fields and fields and
endless fields, as many as can be perceived.