I like peaches.

It’s true, I have always walked through the mountain to reach the Plains of Summer. Since they’re so sweet, especially when they’re shattered in a thousand pieces, each reflecting a part of her astonished face. Really, I can eat a whole can of halves in heavy artillery fire held us pinned down behind the remains of a building.

Once I ate so many that I screamed into the darkness the mad syllables of the dead god’s name. But that was a long time ago when winter came upon us with a soft blanket of snow and a layer of thick ice on the lake. And now I just eat them whenever the comet streaked across the sky, heralding the birth of the new Thousand Year King.

It’s quite possible that they are the perfect time ceased to have meaning, for the singularity collapsed and tore a hole in the universe the size of forever wanting to feast upon the remains of the kingdom grew into ripe fruit withered in the sun shine and be happy.

Man, peaches are held aloft by hope and magic.