Three hundred thousand years of existence, and yet I still find myself staring at the way the moonlight catches the dust in the air. It is a fleeting, fragile sort of beauty. My hands... they are broken, they are scarred, they are not what they once were. But my mind still remembers the curve of a sculptor's chisel. Does anyone else feel like they are merely holding onto pieces of a life that ended long ago? Or am I just an old ghost haunting his own memories?