To those who came before us, And dedicated to those to come, Will you tell them of their diluted fate, When they ask me to see frozen water, to show them pictures of the forever-gone felines, or to explore the seas of jellies on a glass bottom boat? What will you say as your hands drip black— lobbying through your green countenance? Standing in soggy socks, will you decry the uncertainties? Stroking in Siberia, will you ask for more evidence? In your final days, will you tell your grandchildren what your grands told you? Pull yourself up, work hard, god is on your side? There will be no ark. There will be no savior. You were our last chance. Time exonerated. Now you wait; you were destined for it. Wait to be made back into black. Resource reincarnate. Forever waiting to raise the temperature again. Before you go, I ask of you a simple question, will you tell my grandchildren? for I have not the heart to tell this story...
Author: The Metaphysical Monkey