I
know that our efforts all come to nothing. I know the end of us all is
nothing, I know that at the end of Time, the reward of our toil will be
nothing— and again nothing. I know that all our handiwork will be
destroyed. I know that not even ash will be left from the fires that
consume us. I know that our ideals, even those we achieve, will vanish
in the eternal darkness of oblivion and final non-being. There is no
hope, none, in my heart. No promise, none, can I make to myself and to
others. No recompense can I expect for my labors. No fruit will be born
of my thoughts. The Future—eternal seducer of all men, eternal cause of
all effects—offers me nothing but the blank prospect of annihilation.
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