The world blessed his eyelids so that he can see the vastness of eternity, but never the minute breaths of those so delicately before him.
Past countless worlds he would walk, steps slow and trudging, as the fabrication of time upon his shoulders would drape past his ankles and cascade down into decades and seconds alike.
So lonely was this weightless Atlas, so countless the blinks of smaller life he glimpsed at for a time unknown.
And so the satellites dusted his domain to prick his feet while he stepped, and so those very same ones shall become nothing more than dust themselves.
Those smaller than him wondered what thoughts he possessed beneath that stoic facade of all knowing and power, only to find themselves still wondering at the gasp of their last breath.
So valiant this King of Pitched Voids and Uncertainty, so valiant a journey you live for, if you can even call it as such. To live without taking a breath, to see without your own eyes, to be without truly being.
And thus he envelops himself quietly in stillness, keeping himself warm with odd memories that even he barely remembers.