To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Tomorrow stepped onto the platform and faced herself, faced Yesterday. Sometimes it seemed as if her entire life was stepping onto this platform and taking her own hands. Sometimes, because of the nature of things, it was that her entire life was stepping up here and holding her own hand.
She braced herself, although she told herself every day that she wouldn’t. She tensed, feeling herself stiffen across the platform, as the shift change took over her.
When the magic poured through her, there was no moving. There was no feeling, no sensation at all except the shift.
The light poured through her, shoved through her, roared through her. It blinded her, deafened her, made her nothing but a window, a portal to push through. She could not close her eyes, but in the tiny corner of her mind that was still hers, Tomorrow pretended to. The light rushed through her, and the world was lit.
And the dark engulfed her, froze her, took over her every cell. It devoured her, consumed her, until there was almost nothing left; she was vessel to hold it and nothing else, and she was dying of the cold. She couldn’t expel it, but with her tiny bit of self, Yesterday imagined she stood in the middle of a fire, finally warm.
The void passed out of her, and the day passed into Tomorrow.