On a fine evening of philosophical debates and a pregnant moon hung low in an endless sky, I have come to the quaint conclusion that we are just a speck of dust in an immeasurable masterpiece of an art we could never properly analyze. / Our humanity is defined by the time that will soon pass us all until our bones decay in the roots our ancestors buried. / Until our roads cave in and our buildings collapse, falling deeper into the core of this place we call home, washing away the remains of our precious technology / Thinking, seeking, hoping we can discover the secrets to the Universe through misinterpreted numbers and pretentious formulas from far-fetched theories. / We call this planet our home because this is where we awoke in new bodies and hands with a potential knowledge to create profoundly magnificent things / but we have wasted that potential by wallowing ourselves in insignificant troubles and materials that only prolong our progress. / We cease to understand that the answers are indeed within ourselves, but we spend too much of our time studying simplized concepts broken down for comprehension, when if we focused, we would recognize that even the composition of our inhabited bodies are beyond wishful comprehension / and that eventually our souls will be set free once again, to rest among stars and new galaxies, and we will learn of our capability from the start.