His tapestries would be devoured by the moths of time, his trophies plundered by oblivion.
What for then toil for the things that are ephemeral, when Man himself is ephemeral? Does he who is impermanent also find his cause in that which is impermanent?
Humanity, that phenomenal quark, contained within a sliver of the faintest streak of Time, soon too must vanish. Even the greatest will eventually have only the grass and wind to commemorate them. History too, will be buried by the cosmic sands of time.
It is our lot to become the ghosts of shadows.
