There was a Long that, to the frustration of his peers, was rather difficult to qualify, at least in term of the nature of his immortality. He was mute as the Winter, yet constantly followed by the sound of his never ending, fervent writing as endemic of the Heart (And yet, a truly lamentable dancer, according to some accounts). He was flighty and his interest was naturally of the Moth, yet his writing could at times cut with a merciless unkindness, and his publications were in a constant state of ever-changing limboas he chased his insatiable desire. Some doubt even that publications under his many pseudonyms were even the same author, contemporary Know of the Co-writer's Covenant arguing constantly over most infinitesimal similarities and differences in the the styling, cadence, language.

The one thing that cannot be denied is the author's longevity and prolificness proliferance of their writing. Between the many texts, letters, novels, essays, (and any other written form under the sun), It is easy to say this particular long has easily lived for around two thousand years.

And yetIt is said as well that the Long could not decide what he wanted, how he wanted to spend his immortality. <br>But<br>The world has a tendency to force decision, in time.