England was an old man.
He was old, over a thousand years accounts for that.
And of course he is a man, but the proof for that fact is in an area that I would not like to explore.
My point is, being old means you have been young. And being young means you have a lot of memories that you do not like. Same with ones you do like.
But when you're over a thousand years old, do the happy memories ever matter to you? Can you think of a senario when countries remembered the "good old days"?
Come on.
No one?
Right.
So my real point, not a wannabe sub-point, is that England had a lot of memories. And the sub-point that I had mentioned earlier tells you what this story is going to be about. And the first line of this story, along with the title, tells you who this story is about. And what it's about. The summary tells you that through a metaphor I made up about five seconds ago. This I just randomly made up on the spot, so. I also only have a vague idea of the summary, so I'm not even sure that this entire paragraph will survive, as most of it is just about me talking about the fundamentals of the story you are reading, not the real story part.
Haa.
Where were we?
...Ah, yes.
So, without further need for ranting, I present: the story of when an old emerald that has been worn by many people finally shatters.
Before, there was a typo that caused the chapter to repeat, and I'm sorry about that, I have really no clue how that happened. It's fixed now. Thank you for your time.
