You will never know me, and I will turn to stone

Behind death walks skeletons. Every skeleton. None escape.
All do the only thing they can — follow death.

Forever walking the endless roads, the same roads on which we walk today.
That is the only path.

We may delude ourselves, but we all will end up in the crowd — skeletons, following death.
Until humanity is a whisper of a memory of what once was and what will never be again.

It all ends the same.

But does it matter? Do we matter? Do I matter? Do you?

Death doesn’t care.
We don’t care.

We make of it what we do, and then it is over.

We are real.

Consigned to the army of death, we have one chance.
One life. One world.

Be real.


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