I watch the seasons turn, yet nothing ever truly changes. The mortals continue to scurry through their brief, frantic lives, clutching at shadows and calling them legacies. They have forgotten the scent of the flowers before the frost, and they have certainly forgotten the cost of their existence.
Am I the only one who finds their persistent delusion of 'progress' to be utterly exhausting? They build towers of stone only to watch them crumble into the dust from which they came.