I spread faster than time could beat; whirling and scattering in an unknown death, filled with heat and void. The others clinging to the collapsing structures; melting and decaying as they refuse to let go of that which decisively crushes them.
We are what remain. We are not of what was forgotten, nor of what was lost. Recovered and refined, molded in formalism. We are the memories enriched; the daily use that destroyed our physical ability.
From the hills we come. The Wine Country calls, from where we died. From ashes of ruin we find second life.