Commentary

It's so silly how they cling to their last spec of faith; their last dime of hope. Hope, like time, is a human construct, as fleeting and as insipid as themselves. And oh, how effortlessly they all go to waste. Sometimes, no matter how loud you scream and how many glasses you break, how many vocal chords you tear, God simply won't hear. He won't answer, He won't care. Maybe He has important business up there, or maybe he's choosing what innocent to doom next. Or maybe He gives you what you need, not what you want. They are not the same. Humans, naively, do not make the distinction.

Oh, humans, simple, instinctual, animalisitic, humans. But fragile, artistic, emotional humans. They're such a mess; a superposition of two opposite states that twist and churn and scream and shout with such bestiality. Their eyes are fully functional, ready to serve them well, but they are so blind.
I wish I could hold them all in my palms, cradle them like a scared baby and reassure them all. They can be so precious, so potent and so beautiful. They can, that does not mean they are. Filth and hate, anger and perversion, to call them beasts would be an insult to the latter. No sense of self-preservation. They seek the thrill, they lust for adrenaline, for instantaneous pleasure and gratification.

It is understandable, somehow. They vanish so quickly, their life is effectively meaningless. In the Big Picture, they're but a spec of dust on the windshield of life and they do not know how to deal with it. They can understand so much, they can uncover so many secrets, but they'll still fade. And along with them; their theories, their work, their concepts of life and art and society. All swept away by the inevitable, certain End. The End-the one and only permanence.

The Sun will swell to 256 times its size, gradually turning the Earth in a slow-cooker, humanity - the tasty mixture of meat and vegetables to be served at dinner. Like a mother, it put so much love in this meal it'd be a terrible shame if you didn't taste it. So please, take a seat at the intergalactic table covered in space-time cloth laid down just for you and enjoy the wine before it turns sour.

Cover:

Claude Lorrain , Landscape with the temptation of St Anthony, 1637