The days went by in a blur.
Or rather, they went by in a particular kind of dizzying whiz, one that Nero had become familiar with over the past months.
The kind of blur that felt more like the fleeting wind or the dying sounds of humanity once dusk began to creep on the horizon. Like time itself was losing its texture, each day stripping itself down to the same essential components until the individual shape of any given morning or afternoon became impossible to separate from the one that had come before it.
He woke. He prayed. He ate. He trained. And he slept.
Of course, there was some variation in all that. Textures were the essence of life after all...
