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 In times to come, the second, the third, the last race is birthed. Our happiness, our woes, our existence now seems inconsequental to these beings, for our imagination cannot reach the lengths they will venture into. Were I the noble prince, the valiant, unequalled knight of this age I strive to be, I am still imprisoned by time, and fall short on what my imagination screams I might have been. If I fail, everything I am will be forgotten and I will return to the void; the last ones will still take my place. If I succeed, they knew of me; I was more than mere abstraction of a foregone age in their eyes.
Read this, you, of the last ones, and know that I existed. Despite my best efforts, I was savage, lustful, hedonistic, desperate; I disregarded sensitivites, I brought forth unnecessary pain, I authored this flagrant sentiment; I was unknowing of the many great things you partake in, yet I carried the undying spirit of sentient life in part, to you. I found little intellectual solace in my time, and thus I turned inward. I left a legacy, a collection of manifestations of what I was, what made up what was I, in the only form I felt potent in surviving the scathing of passing time: please consider my creations and see what I was.
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