The hands of the clockmaker and his sundial troughout the following days: one shall perceive their scars and healed by one who stays from the first second to last. They may indicate the best for worst, the light for the darkest hour. And by the end of their lives, their red dots will be tangled. No one spits fire nor bleed ice. Bathed in sunshine, washed in rain. Until they discern the contrary of their sides of the world and pelted by their own shadow of their childhood.