I'm suffering from some sort of writer's block at the moment. Too many ideas, but I can't seem to get them out of my head. This is a drabble to somewhat relieve the pressure. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC and Steven Moffat.


He thinks of the stars, and he thinks of them fondly.

Sometimes, he sleeps in the arms of the stars.

He thinks of hunting the stars, of running through meadows of ethereal beauty, of gliding over astral oceans. He chases golden threads into the heart of the universe, transcending time. There is no longer time. He reaches out his hand; the strands of gold curl and turn to dust before his finger tips.

Planets arise from the dust. The stars breathe, he breathes, she breathes beside him, and time begins again.

He hunts the stars. He picks them up, one by one, and carries them to her. A hundred million suns and supernovas. It is all he has to offer, and she accepts.

He takes her hand and closes his eyes. Together, they sleep in the arms of the stars.