The Twelfth Branch

Time is like a never-tiring craftsman, holding an invisible carving knife, carving the lines of time on the surface of all things. The steel-cast rails have been twisted and deformed by tens of thousands of trains, and the once-shiny metal has become dusty and rusty; the marble sculptures have peeled off their edges and corners in the erosion of wind and rain, and even the most delicate wrinkles have been ground into vague outlines; even faces that are vivid in memory will fade and turn yellow in the long forgetfulness. No matter how solid the material is, it will be consumed in the torrent of time, just like the rocks on the shore are polished into fine gravel by the tide. Nothing in this world can resist the gentle and cruel wear and tear of time. Everything is aging and dying in silence, even gods.