Seasons

We tend to think of ourselves as much more important to the grand cosmic scale of the universe than we truly are. This is not to say that our individual lives are not valued or of importance, but the universe will not tremble at the thought of our passing; Truth exists regardless of our existence, and nothing we can do or say can strip that Truth of its meaning. At the end of the man's life he faces all he has been, all that he has known. He has traversed the tunnels of nihilism and faith, and found himself facing one final, immutable Truth.

We've conquered everything, these minds and these machines.

By our hands the earth stops its spin, and with our will it begins again.

But our first breath is as our last. Our first breath is as our last. Our first breath is as our last.

And will the heavens still shine without our gaze?

And will the seasons still pass if there's no one to count the days?

We fade like the summer leaves in fall, then drift with the winters wind.

And still we thought that we were gods, but we're nothing more than a grain of sand in time.

We've conquered everything, these minds and these machines.

By our hands the earth stops its spin, and with our will it begins again.

But when the mountains turn to dust, and the rivers all run dry,

when my final breath has come and gone, this place will carry on.

We are nothing more than grains of sand on the shores of time.