[The video clicks on and Sylar's chilling in the chair of his desk, looking a mixture of pensive and still. He's quoting from memory:]
O time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
[He pauses, then shifts to looking more bored than thoughtful.]
Another person dies, another mystery the wardens won't solve. The inmates are left waiting again, the way they always wait when we kill our own. Such a waste of time. [He lets out a sigh and turns his gaze away from the camera, falling out of frame for a moment as he leans back. The painting of the
zombie on his wall from months ago is visible before he returns to his original posture.] Tick tock. Time is almost gone.
[He raises an eyebrow in a mocking kind of challenge before lifting two fingers to turn the camera off without touching it.]
[Dear Tim: Your inmate has been silently plotting stewing for about two weeks now. You should be concerned for peoples' safety. &hearts]