The distant memory of an ancient past drifts to me on the vague mists of imagination and remind me of a time that might have been. In return I hunger for such times, immemorial, dead, disrespected; a whole history wiped away and all but forgotten by the collective consciousness, except as foggy dreams and disillusioned legends. They were important once, the most important thing in existence, and the foresight that one day it would not be did not exist, much as our society is now. But if such ancient civilisations could fall, if whole cultures and people could be erased almost entirely from modern memory, then it goes to stand that one day we too shall be nothing but forgotten thoughts, ancient ancestors whose bloodlines are no longer traceable, and even with our modern disposition to meticulously record everything, from past, present and hoped for future, all that too shall disappear. Such is the working of time. And no mortal can stop it; neither you nor I, nor our children, nor our children's children, nor even their offspring. They will continue to reproduce, and we will continue to melt into the shadows of the past until one day we have become little more than dust, the soil from which our distant descendants reap their produce, without a single thought to their long dead relatives from which their families were sprung. Will it not be so? Are we not the same? Life goes on and death stops for no one.