Kro sat out on the roof of the treehouse, upon a branch of the tree. Sighing, he flicked through the pages of the book he held, revisiting the pages and leaving once again. He had read it enough times, and hated it equally as many. But oneself could not drag oneself from the torture that manifests between the lines. A vicious cycle, forever to repeat, with no function nor reason. On a grander scale, he observed the world around him in much the same way. A vicious cycle, forever to repeat its lack of function, like a broken machine. The question is, what happens when the cogs get sick of said machine?
He sighed once more, and stared indifferently into the sky.