The rivers of Mansus flow swiftly and deeply. And so it is with time to the Clepsydrae. A running unity to mere mortals it was thusly broken by the Clepsydrae that all might see its divisions for what they were, moments. Thus was she the threshold by which time might be moments, and a lifetime be memories. And thus was she frozen that they might cherish the floes upon the river, stillness to be grasped in the rushing of all others. And thus was she the caretaker of the forgotten once more, clipping them from the flow that they might once more be remembered. And thus was she the guardian of the lost and the broken, that they might know wholeness. And thus has she gone, that the Collision might not be. Yet a Name remains to speak of those floes, out of hate or love none might say. Yet he waits for that moment, praying and cursing a return unknown.