"Chronicles of Time? What tomb—this is only my painting."
Inside the false Chronicles of Time.
The Painter watched as, from the album, ancient heroes stepped out one by one, all kinds of familiar figures; his thoughts seemed to traverse time and space, returning to the very first ages.
The Painter, from the moment of birth, could not understand what kind of creature he was.
He was a scribble woven from countless thick and thin lines, like a child scrawling with a pencil on a wall.
That squirming mass of line-draft shadow sat quietly in the empty, primitive Nine-State world, witnessing the birth of many creatures.
He watched them evolve, grow; grasslands appeared, forests, schools of fish, tribes.
In his idle moments, what he loved most was to gaze at this great land; just watching tiny insects crawl back and forth could hold his attention for an entire day.
