Spending the final and ticking years of life;
Spending them with pen in hand;
Trying to work out the most ground-breaking work of life, to die in hope.
And to die in eternal knowledge that not a mark has been left.

Not a single mark has been left of our entire life.
An entire, massive, humunguos life of inspiration, passion, of intellect.
In disseminated amongst the ashes of the earth.
The earth picks up the debri again without getting tired.

And all the knowledge that came from our Mother Nature.
Goes back to it.

In an infinite, unbreakable, endless loop;
Why, for what purpose, do we think we exist?

So small and insignificant, like watching us crawling around from the Moon.
Yet we are so massive. We offer genius to Nature.
Nature rejects us, condemns us;
It summons on all in equality, and bares their bones.
Why does nature do this?

One feels like running away from our Mother.
Runaway human mammal, round and round.
In an endless loop of orbit.
Just bringing our cycle ever closer.

And we fall.
Back in our concrete graves.

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