Vulgarweed asked for a day in the life of a Valar or one of the other spirits of Middle-earth.
Arising in his might, he had glimpsed the possibility of ceaseless novelty, of ecstatic drama fit to empty oneself for. The promise of all, and all within his grasp would he but bend his will toward it for an instant of that which made and was novelty, time.
Gravity without grace. That ill-marked instant begat all others–presence unending of the unbearable. He hated the light as he hated the darkness for the truth that composed him. Thus each day dawned the same–a mockery of eternal constancy, that said only and forever: I defy, else I am not!