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Strange being and mutant like, his light eyes were tinted greenish-purple.  A deformed Virgil often gasped for air and at this time there was no dragons breath.  Ex-uncumbering and foreseen the 4/4 signature of life was much the same.  The keynotes of Virgil were the jumping of moments.  Still at 1.2 in life, Virgil saw no one but mum and dad.  Those greenish-purple eyes, lightened the path of humanity.  Getting down and breathing was a product of the placement of the position-less mushrooms, on that fateful day.  Over a fortnight ago Virgil was deemed well.  In this world were sun and moon captured one another every seventy-five eras, seemed responsible.  

A dutiful difference was Vigil.   The average lasted and the strong survived.  In reticence, hindsight, and fortitude Virgil knew the uptake of air would be difficult.  The ores of the fallen earth were dark in view and light in view, as well.  An interpretation of Virgil at 1.2 would see the notches of time wether THEY enjoyed the company or not.  Slow beasts would be slain.  Slow magicians would see magic as peril.  Peril would be defined by the outcome and not the originality of practicality.