we live in the age of decay, and breaking down, and dying things, and objects made to crumble, and structures built to collapse;
and we cannot think more than five years ahead because we all know that every year can be measured in a million tiny deaths;
and we carry the tiny grief of ages lost with us;
and every now and then we will stumble across something small, tarnished but not tarnishing, decayed but not decaying, either having been built to last or put in circumstances which allow it to defy its own gravitation towards rust;
and that tiny thing will gleam through its own rust with the brightness of a thousand suns;
and it is not that it will never die;
it is that its death is not a simple guarantee
You must log in to comment.