I weep for that which vexes us.  Too often it shrouds life’s splendor in anguish.

So too is it with Loki‘s asthma.

More often than I care to admit, this heartless affliction besieges him even as the hourglass sands trickle silently in gravity’s hold.

I fear there rests an awful fate in his near future.

More near than what we presume.  More near even than what we can foretell.

Already I know within him lies the weakened heart of a god cast upon the ground like so much broken clay.

Regular medication notwithstanding, his condition worsens like clockwork, a plague set upon the devil himself.