We were a heavy gobbet of boiling, vital matter shot out from the coruscating birth of a star, circling and cooling, forming a shiny, coin-bright skin; then dulling, cracking, covered in the chaotic verdigris of organic life that begat tiny scuttling things that in turn begat larger things that learned to harness the sun but still skulked and scuttled in self-created shadows, both inside and out. In time our appetites were our undoing, our stain irremovable from the once-gleaming surface that we strode, the light inside of us dimming long before the Sun.
Our dust cast to the four winds, now winding sinuously through the empty structures that we left, like abstract sculptures. Without our frail shapes to lend them purpose of shelter, our gleaming exoskeletons to scurry up their winding ramps, our endless to and fro of pointless information to fill their copper veins, they stand as cryptic monuments; tributes to gods of profit and progress worshipped inexplicably; sanitoria of our collective madness.This view, this perspective is not unique to our future, to potential visitors from whatever may transpire; it is the slightest turning of the head, a simple shift of focus. It should be obvious to any of us, as we sit in our tiny metal corpuscles, queued in the black veins that carry poison across the land, that we are a plague, that our tooth grinding impatience with the noise and the nudging forward, the pointless delay and the decay of our surroundings are simply symptoms of the disease, the lunacy that we continue to spread.Do we fail to notice? Are our senses that dull, or are we merely locked in denial, telling ourselves fairy tales to distract ourselves from the awful truth that we ourselves are the very monsters that stalk our nightmares?Know this: there will come a day for each of us that we will tumble into the abyss. Angels will not swoop to save us, science will not lend us wings and all that we will have is what we were, what we chose to do with each second that ticked by.