Louder it grows, and anxiety blooms like the lilies in spring. Zhongli guides this little nation and holds it against the warmth of his bosom, and he hears the beat of something old, something that can hurt as it can heal. He is not old enough to have heard its beginning, though he has spent five millennia walking amongst men and gods alike, despite having heard the beginning and end of thousands upon millions of hearts. He does not know when the heartbeat began. He is unchanging stone, immovable even with the ebbing of the tide and the rising of the sun. Zhongli knows it will be long after he has passed, but even that moment is undetermined, unknown, for he cannot erode under the hands of time.
Everything has an end and a beginning, and this surely will end somewhere, somehow. Just as all things have, it will soon pass–nothing more than a whisper on the wind. It is present always, doesn’t falter nor quicken. It beats with the passing of time and the aging of men. It thrums alongside the cajoling of the people in the streets.
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