I am not death, I am not the eater of worlds. I am not time, I do not ineffably wear away the stone. I am far less diligent than the seconds that pass, and one day nothing will remain of me but dust, easily scattered. This is what it means to be mortal: that the earth breathes in, and collects you as the dawn begins, to exhale the remains of the day where you have left a smudge upon the sunset. If one is lucky, someone of the next breathing will point at it and say, “How curious,” and go on with the comings and goings of the passing hour. This is what it means to be mortal: in this one day we have, how spectacular is the light, that many will miss that they hide away from the dangerous breathing: never to come again, however much it is taken for granted, this inexorable passing of the world.