Behind this deceiving veil of transparency we call waking consciousness, creatures from our unspoken dreams await. Underneath our feet the roots of infinite ideas are spreading, fragile mental artifacts swept aside by the broom of time. But when the game is over, only they might be left behind; our single chance to get a glimpse of eternity, to leave an indiscernible mark in some remote corner of the Milky Way.

How would you like to be remembered?
Me? Not at all. Let oblivion cover my footprints with snow. For it is not my whish to linger here any longer than necessary. Immortality is for those who can still invest in the possibility of redemption.
What a sad waste of imagination and hope…