We are but antlings, vain in our assumptions. We would presume to grasp at the unfathomable. We would presume to dress it as man, to give it names, to speak its intention. Yet we are humbled beneath the shadow of true greatness. Now the earth crest rises to meet our gaze. We are but fleas. We are but lice. We are nothing. Insignificant. Dust motes blown away by the breath of time. Vague memories of no consequence. Vanquished are the fires in the eyes of the friends I knew. Just as they are deafened to my wasted breath. Each one more wasted than the others you can bet. Now I see through the illusion of permanence. I am diminished in the presence of vastness. Useless are my tools of science, of religion. There is no understanding of limitless power. We are at peace in our minor, subordinate role. Accept our frail, short lives.
looks like I was beaten to mt. driskill. touche sir.
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