The last throws of his titanic, obliterating, rage upon him,

Mad King March sinks into solitude and reckless despair.

He had known all his life that his anger was wasted

on the faithful subjects who had grown to love him,

as they had every March before him, for Mad King March

understood that the time was at hand in which,

baring disaster, baring cosmic storms and ice so ravenous that would

carve death into the heart of the Universe, it was time to start

thinking of the future, the January babe, medieval child in arms,