Neuetotal Fantasy ::etherthe clouded sea of citrine, mottled mist juggled below. your hand tingles with a fearful joy, as a memetic worm enters your hand
The cycles kept repeating themselves, didn't they? We kept burning and burning further, but we never truly reached any sort of true-ash, did we?
Some would be foolish to assume that we are there now. Nothing is truly at rest, there is still always that bubbling something, that microrganism, ready to burst forth with new brood. Not until it is reduced to the purest of ash.
We think ourselves so separate from those who were a 'period of their time.' We're better now. After all, we have all these magics. All these technologies. All these rituals, and divinities, and abstract understandings. We have to be superior, now, yes?
We are built upon mite-infested scaffold. To expect anything but the coming grims -- nay, the moderne grims -- is foolish. Embrace thine lunacy. Embrace your lunacy, and see that all be brought to a soot coherance.