I twist and drag each tiny, golden pollen grain from the spine of an Oak sporophyll1 onto vague foliage-patterned white bedsheets pecked with divots from sleep, speckled with these dead babes of trees.
The greatest novel will in the distant future be lost in translation to the polishing tide of culture and language. Language is an unreliable and transient medium as graphite, glue, India ink, granite, acrylic paint, and magnetic tape; perhaps reluctantly fickle, but fickle in the eyes of the universe nevertheless. No further inspection is necessary; I know that language is eventually lost. Human greatness is only slightly more permanent than personal insignificance.
The greatest philosophy will be deprecated by a change in human nature. Human nature will morph and compound recursively into new versions that the current version cannot appreciate.
The greatest work of art will decay physically and socially.
One's prominence on the bell of human history can last only as long as the significance of one's achievements. All achievements shall eventually be regarded as minute and trivial.
Collect treasure...
1. Biological term courtesy of
eeevilkiwi.