An old man lay upon the ground, wrapped in a worn toga. No one stood nearby. No one had come to witness his passing. In his final moments, he felt no attachment to the world. His life returned to him in fragments: the great Temple of Zeus rising toward the heavens, a magnificent bathhouse built in Memphis, bards singing tales of the pantheon beneath the glow of torchlight.

Woe to the Men: Upon a gloomy hill, beneath a sky heavy with iron clouds, there stood an old shrine, weathered by wind, fire, and years. Woe to the men. Men drift with the current, their eyes barely open. Yet love them still, for they are our own kind. Love them, but remain steadfast in mind. Among men, there are a few who act with reason. They trust their convictions, cling to justice, and bear the burden of consequence.