You were born and raised for a world that no longer exists.
The future is dead on arrival.  
The Great Ouroboros swallows its tail and the Sun goes up.  
And down. 
And the Sun goes up.  
And the Sun goes down.  
And the Sun goes down. 

Man, we really overdid it this time. What if the Sun was not coming back? What if our wrongs were so wrong it could not bear to shine on our dirty hands anymore? What if it grew tired of our bullshit? C’mon, we can’t be that bad, can we?  

The Greeks are long dead and yet they are much closer to us than they have ever been. We taste their memory on the palate of the serpent, feel their decay as doubt runs in our flesh. 
This is not an age of faith.  
Religion for those who don’t really believe. Gospel to the deaf, light to the blind, bread for the masses. 

What they want you to see is something that does not exist in the world. They want you to see the divine. Divine is youth, divine is beauty, divine is the world you dream, divine is you trying, aching, struggling, dying to be divine.  

I miss the Sun. 
How long has it been since we’ve been locked up? One week? Two months? I can barely remember what it used to be like, you know, before. I already can’t remember what was lunch yesterday. What, beans? Again?  

But really, when it all burns down, when it gets buried under meters and meters of ashes, until we’re all just… Eating daffodils by the roots, what is left of us? Art is gone, man. Art has no point of being if there’s no one to see it, right? Kiss Mona Lisa goodnight for me. Music is gone, hell, even language is gone. What is left of us? Even our sturdiest buildings can’t stand the test of time. Forever means nothing. Animals will forget about us, too, and all the bad things we did to them. But that we deserved. What is left of us? Just atoms, merely energy, going back to the universe as it once was. We’re not really leaving, in a way. But we won’t be there anymore. Just stardust. Wandering through space and time. The good old dust, becoming dust again. It’s comforting, in a way. To know that you can die, but not disappear. That there is something of you that will stay, through and through. 
We gaze at the same moon as Cleopatra and Marie-Antoinette. We drink the same water as Julius Caesar. It’s a whole. It’s a finished whole. It’s a cycle. It’s comforting to be part of a cycle. It’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker when it ends. Because everything ends. 
But you and I won’t be there to see it.  

Or won’t we?