The prompt was to use "Time unravels-- it's a fact of life." as the first sentence. I may still work on it before I post it on the site I got the prompt from.
This is from a character - not necessarily from me.

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Time unravels-- it's a fact of life. As it does this, what was constructed on the surface of what was once stable and whole and is now a ribbon being unwound, becomes unbalanced, unsupported; it teeters and rocks with the lengthening line of ribbon, the distancing time. And ultimately it is toppled by its own limitations, the extent to which it may balance upon the unraveling time before it is forced to fall away and descend into the darkness of eons that soon rush past it; first becoming a corpse and the memory that marks the tomb, but before long even those fall from the ribbon and what had once stood on the straightening line is not what stands upon it now. No evidence of the past survives. The tomb sinks into the embrace of obscurity beneath the crust others tread upon.

Some cast out their lines to catch some stray glimpses, fossils and ancient artifacts, but few are ever snagged, fewer still reeled in to be known - the memory reborn anew as its existence is unveiled, the brothers of Lazarus rising as they are told to step forth from the darkness and live again. But those who lie dead forever, far exceed the number of those who have risen. The dead outnumber the years that the most ancient of the brothers have walked through to reach the ever distancing present, that which stretches over the abyss. But the dead do not care. The dead are dead, and when one does not have the ability to walk forward, with no journey beneath one’s feet on which to force oneself onward, such as those stepping upon time do - then time flies past the grasps of the brightest hopes, and the breath of its wings snuffs out such cares that might make the dead linger in their attachments to what is still living. But that does not prevent the brothers of Lazarus from rising willingly, from rising with songs of joy that awe those who are made to know them – truth born from nothingness, boulders rolled aside to uncover the tombs of the earth.

Yes. Time unravels. It is a fact of life. And for this fact, I yearn to hear the footsteps of the once dead, to know them, to raise more of them. And for this fact, I yearn for my own to join their ranks. I wish that I too may be granted the miracle of life beyond the grave, to return to the path that time reaches into, forward and ahead indefinitely as it uncoils from the womb of infinity. The Philosopher’s Stone was dreamed of for those who wished to remain conscious as they walked, but I do not mind being blind and deaf. All that I care for - is to be seen. All that I care for - is to be heard, to be felt and known. With my death my power to create will cease entirely, but I wish to be remembered so that I will not disappear into the darkness to become meaningless, to be condemned to build upon the nothingness that will drown the countless others who fall into the abyss with every passing grain that makes the plunge with them. I will not fade from the earth. I will become a feature that defines it. I do not need to be as grand as the Himalayas or any of the known temples, nothing close to the man who walks among us each day in a bask of Holy light. I would not mind becoming a drop of rain that falls upon the fields each time the seasons revolve and the wind collects its white flocks to block out the sun and darken their wool.

I wish for my life to be of use. I wish for what I suffered and endured, for what I loved and celebrated, not to have been done for myself only. I wish for my life to be forever cemented to the surface of that unraveling time so that I may be a part of the world it carries away with it. I want to be a feature. I want to be the cause of some advancement, of a larger harvest, of a greater achievement that has adopted my available legacy, my work, the time that dried me out and used up my life. I do not wish for others to flounder in the dry patches, the deserts of failure that I had to overcome to taste again the sweet nectar of achievement, what would wash away the blood from my cracked lips, what would quench my parched and dusted throat, and what would cover me in a mending shade for a moment until I would have to again confront the decades of desert miles before me, to confront the chance that there may be no other oasis in my path which would serve to revive me. I wish for my pain to lessen the distance that others would have to travel in order to start upon their own string of oases which will eventually run dry the instant their knees and hands fail to let them crawl forward, and their faces touch the desert as their lungs fill with the weight of the sand that sends them plummeting into the abyss - what holds them down as time moves farther from them.

One means of achieving my wish can be through pages of ink; another can be through bricks shaped and laid down by my hands. There are many ways to tie a lifeline, but it takes sweat and luck to make sure that tie will bear a body - that it will not snap, that it might be strong enough that if it is ever snagged by a hook that prods into the darkness of what is forgotten, I might be retrieved from my tomb.

But, just as it is known that time unravels, it is known that one must die in order to live forever. And if you have come to this sentence, and you have read what I have written, and you carry it in the back of your mind - if you stop every now and then to listen, you will hear my footsteps as I walk beside you.