The Time Lord stood and watched, as he’d done countless times before and after. He was almost sorry for not being able to feel a thing at the face of the horrendous, grandiose, rare, negligible and marvelous sight of whatever it was he was witnessing this time over and again. It was a sight extraordinary and trivial. He’d been patient an infinite number of times, and again and twice as many times over, as he waited. He waited for this, and was being patient again, but this time, for how long, did it matter? Was there something different about this particular occurrence that would unfold an unexpected chain of events, was there something new to be found, or felt, or discovered?
Even if there was, it’d be the same again as it’d always been many times before. How many timelines had he visited, as a child, as an elder, as an immortal being, and as a being, or no being of any physical body or electrical impulse…
The time lord felt neither emptiness nor joy, he merely watched. Did he still acknowledged what he saw? He could have, he may have, he should have, he might have, he ought to, and he had. How many times… was there still something in time of space that could still provoke or instigate a reaction from the time lord?
The one thing the time lord was quite keen on, however, as a luxury he allowed himself to indulge on, was the shipping forecast. That was something he could never predict, no matter how many times or long he’d been round these parts, this isle, this land.
The time lord was never able to share. Even if he did, it’d have been pointless.