In the dusty haze of Edenbrooke, there lived a young king.
His hands were on the opposite arms and he lived in a tiny cave.
He ate hamburgers to pass the time, because to him, time was irrelevant.
His grandmother made the greatest scones in the village, but she poisoned them every second day.
People started to die as she cackled 'only the bees can save you now', before continuing to read the paper.
The tiny king stood there, watching time and events go by.
He spoke only to tell passers the time, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, three-thirty, eight.
How can things be a coincidence when everyone has blades of glass in their eyes?