As all things were on Earth the winds of change blow, in cascading rapture of the condiments of destiny. The things of beauty are rarely eternal, for no matter how far life stretches it is yet a mere blink in the timeframe of the cosmos. The entire collected lives, dreams, experiences,joys and hurts of every single human being who has ever lived are as inconsequential as the cascading whirlpools of windswept dust that blow across an empty summer street.
But no one can doubt the power of cool wind upon a tearful cheek.
As with all things on this Earth, we pass. Wither we go, no one can ever know. For certain. Fourscore years on a lonely world; the passing of all life, like tributaries on a vast river of the human race, giving and taking our essences, when we fly in the face of a storm.
We are flies on the face on the Earth as all humanity is earth in the face of the assembled cosmos. And to not realize this is the purest arrogance, the unfiltered homocentric manifest destiny that has caused so much destructive bloodshed across the wideswept vistas of human history that spreads like an unmarked desert through the misty sands of time.