Prometheus, o father, what forgetfulness we, your children possess. The clouds of judgment shadow the flame you gave us into pitiable embers, and like rain and lightning, interminable chaos falls down on us all.
You gave us the final object of our completion, and our perfection, and we have sullied it, worn it down, made it brittle and rust. Through the alchemy of hate, ambition, and hubris we have transmuted gold to silver to bronze to rust. And by these means we have lost ourselves.
Humanity is perished from this Earth, and your gift is left buried within your first sons and daughters.
And you are vanished from us. We can not be what you made us. If ever we are to be better than however far we have fallen, we must be beings which create ourselves.
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And to you o Athene, what tragic things we must seem to you, we who were softened, and made malleable by your breath of soul, who now without humility grow stiff as the dead.
It is your gift too we have wasted now with the passing of our youth into bitter agedness. Yes, even now pride has bound and blinded us to our course of self-immolation.
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There is only the hope that a few may shake the yolk of the public, of the consensus, of the common mind and tongue. Only those who win themselves, who steal themselves away from the prying eyes of their socialization.
Those few who embody the cunning of our father, and the wisdom of our mother. Those few thieves and free minds.
If this species is to continue, it will continue through criminals, and artists. These are the only members of our species of any merit whatsoever.