Alexei Alexeivich Harlamoff Literary Pursuits of a Young Lady

. . . let us go.
Azrael watched them skim away.
It is hard to fathom the thoughts of a creature so big that, in real space, his length would be measured only in terms of the speed of light. But he turned his enormous bulk and, with eyes that stars could be lost in, sought among the myriad worlds for a flat one.
On the back of a turtle. The Discworld - world and mirror of worlds. It sounded interesting. And, in his prison of a billion years, Azrael was bored.
And this the scene . . .
And now add the sharp clicking of bone on stone, getting closer. A dark shape crosses the field of vision and moves up the endless shelves of sibilant glassware. Click, click. Here’s a glass with the top bulb nearly empty. Bone fingers rise and reach out. Select. And another. Select. And more. Many, many more. Select, Select.
It’s all in a day’s work. Or it would be, if days existed here.is the room where the future pours into the past via the pinch of the now.Timers line the walls. Not hour-glasses, although they have the same shape. Not egg-timers, such as you might bu as a souvenir attached to a small board with the name of the holiday resort of your choice jauntily inscribed on it by someone with the same sense of style as a jelly doughnut. It’s not even sand in there. It’s seconds, endlessly turning the maybe into the was. And every lifetimer has a name on it. And the room is full of the soft hissing of people living. Picture
Click, click, a~, the dark shape moves patiently along