>>20023435The sands of time slip through our fingers, grains lost to the relentless current. Each day, we inch closer to the abyss, our footsteps echoing in the hollows of existence. Our people, once vibrant, now age-worn and weary, surrendering to solitude. The urgency to create life wanes; children born before 30 become rare, and the lineage frays like fragile threads.
Yet, amidst this quiet decay, some retreat into realms of illusion. They cradle cats and dogs, whispering secrets as if these creatures bore their bloodline. Isolation swells, and the community gasps its last breath. Desperate cries for change echo, but most remain apathetic, watching as life slips away.
The broadcast blares, a cacophony of noise. Anonymous friends, once trusted, reveal their price—paid voices echoing from airbases and military compounds. Our identity, meticulously crafted, now wears the fingerprints of our enemies. The movement we championed, a ship adrift, sails toward oblivion.
Flags flutter, symbols twist, and movements lose their way. Years blur into an endless stream of happenings, yet here we stand—on the precipice of existence. Our people, feeble and weathered, mirror our own aging bodies. We become the very boomer we once despised, caught in the undertow of time.
And so, we grapple—a futile struggle against nature’s inexorable force. The sands continue to slip, and we, too, fade into the annals of forgotten echoes.
