Listen

The man that built this chair is not dead. He never dies. He sits unmoved, unblinking. He doesn't hear the ticking of the merciless clock-- nor does he pity those who do. He laughs-- for he is that clock, and he  seeks much greater noises than those buried in his soul. Once, he cast his eyes upon the darkness inside and he saw the minuteness of those sounds and only then did he conduct a much greater harmony-- the harmony of life.

It begins at the very center of the earth and lumbers upwards with growing strength, bursting into  frothy existance. Behold you who sail, the monster that lurks beneath is no monster of life, but one of pure energy, and it knows nothing of you-- or your wars! When you no longer hear the sound, you can be sure it is high above you, roaring louder, declaring This Is The Will To Power! as it  is embraced by the weeping universe.

Ten thousand years from now, a fisherman whom you would not recognise as man, nor he you, will fish up your chair. Rotted and held together by the slime of the under-eels will it creak and burst open as it breathes the sun once more. And there He sits on wind, sails silent. Suddenly, he casts himself up towards the mountain, devastating upwards until there is nothing at all at the summit.

The fisherman bids his wife and child farewell. A grand throne awaits him, high on the mountain. There he will be battered by the waves no longer. Instead the cruel howl of silence will scream in his ears until he is deaf.

Time vacates his chair for no man.

The grand chair is vacated-- a mountain somewhere deep inside the gaping abyss is cut in bloody two.

Time does not pass this way anymore. With new ears-- ears that can never belong to a mere fisherman, he hears the weeping of his child and returns down to man. The seat is yours, dear child, for a time-- if only you escape  the ticking of the clock. Tick tock.