In the end, after a hundred thousand progeny have surrendered to the dust, There will be nothing. For the master star will wipe clean all that he forged so long ago. The Messenger, The Warrior, and Our own world will be embraced in the fires of their nativity. And all the blood that ever bled, all the egos that ever killed, and all the armies that ever marched will cease to have a niche in the universe. But what of today? The countless seconds and minutes sacrificed on the Altar of Self. Today we must download the reality sitting outside our door. It is not enough to touch the flowers; they must come to us in an electronic wrapping. We get high on ever increasing antics broadcast every evening. We have permanently bad connections with ourselves. Yet we wallow in the endless valley of electromagnetic haze. Out of view of our minds, on the distant edge of comprehension, The death throes of our familiar yellow god await us. He knows our time is limited. He knows we will realize this. He has all the time in the world.
