The Time Lord stood on the edge of his plank and watched, as he’d done countless times before and after, navigating the waves of infinity. He’d been so patient a number of times, and again and twice as many times over, and still he waited. 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? Whether tracing time traversing atoms and molecules, bursts of gold and gamma rays, fusions of carbon and oxygen; the birth and death of starts, or infinity itself feeding on time, inexorably. He watched.
How many timelines and eternities had he visited, as a child, as an elder, as a mortal beast, and as a being, or no being of any physical body at all.
Sometimes the time lord felt neither emptiness nor joy, he merely watched, out of his monocle, as everything unfolds in his hourglass: a sphere, the centre of everything of which the circumference was nowhere. Did he still acknowledged and understand what he saw? He could have, he may have, he should have, he ought to, and he had. Was there still something in time of space that could still provoke or instigate a reaction from the time lord?
The time lord listened to the music time played across the universe. All he carried along with at all times were, other than monocle and hourglass, a map, a string and a light. All the rest were matters for his assistant, the weather-obsessed record keeper.