Upon the Moors of Old Stallen, near the abandoned shell of an old ramshackle cabin lay a dusty, grey stone. The stone was not barren; memories of a time long past had been etched upon its face though the test of time had not been kind to the stone and the words that once decorated its forefront were now all but gone. The stone was not alone, one of an older, more unrecognized time and one newly crafted adorned the grassy crag to either side of the beaten piece of earth. Each of the three stones had different markings on the front, the eldest one could not be read at all, the stone of which we speak was nearly as bad yet the memories carved upon the face of the newest stone were fresh and easily noticeable.
Upon the foreground of each of the stones lay pedals, decoratively set to represent meanings that words could never articulate. The colors of red and blue and yellow adorning the earth seemed to fend off the oppressively disheartening hue of the grey overcast sky that encompassed Old Stallen that day. The purple pedals were, however, the greatest of all. Each pedal was adorned with gold gilding, each even had a stem the color of aged Emerald. These pedals were, after all, so precious that each stone only received one as decoration. The effervescence given off by the pedals seemed to emanate a sort of tranquility that had long since been lost among the Moors. The ground itself seemed sacred that even the beetles refrained from entering the boundaries of this specific moor.
Among the beautifully colored pedals there was a point of solemnity located within the boundaries of a small, white note placed upon the the stone in which we have been speaking of. Though the memories upon the stone itself were rendered unreadable and therefore lost, the words of ink upon the letter had endured and read as follows:
06-Mar-2013 00:03:46
Good to see *someone* is still writing.