To say that all was right with the world had always been a blatant lie.  Actually, not always.  Just for decades.  Several very long decades—an era of legendary clashes between the minions of evil and the knights of good that had been known to suspend the whole universe very perilously over a gaping, growling chasm leading straight to the most unpleasant abyss in the darkest void of the realm of utter doom.  During such times, all was certainly very, very wrong with the world.  The era of legendary clashes had been ripe well beyond the point of rancor with such episodes of despair.

    That era, however, was no more.  A new age of endless potential cascaded wholesomely in through the breaches in existence itself that the deceased era had feverishly torn agape in its epic twilight.  The waning of the old had caused the waxing of the new.

    The towering enormity of the danger previously ravaging the world simply could augment itself no longer and had thus ceased to match the titanic achievement of those who would oppose it.  Logic could no longer permit such a gross perturbation of the superlimenal enclaves of horrid suffering, even though the most heinously malicious forge of consumptive scourges could no longer contrive feats to trump its own carnage-spewing pawns.

    To say that all was right with the world was now a blatant disservice to the splendor frolicking in every pore of the cosmos.  Wickedness itself gave the carcass of yesterday a loathsome kick in the side and then proceeded to skip pleasantly away into nothingness while whistling a giddy tune and smiling at the streams of splendor splashing underfoot. .

    All it took, ultimately, was for those who had both fanned and starved the wretched flames—those who had defined the era of legendary clashes favorably for the new harmony—to forever have both their beloved, starry globes and their valiant, cherished heart grab the hands of wickedness and skip away with it.