Lesser known works will find love, when at the end of the day we learn there will be no tomorrows. Now we stand at the last moments, when the world has finally stopped its revolutions, we finally see what we are. The fallen mementos of something grander, something so big we gripped onto our centrality, colliding into a colorful array. What we know now is how soft and gentle we always could have been, how our roughened crumbs are falling into corners, still visible but devalued. We in truth are a collection of words that are a collection of stories that are a collection of fully lived lives beautifully broken but not shattered, final sunsets splintered along the water but still together. We read all of our apocalyptic stanzas that melt into a never-seen-before debut of humanity, impermanent and world-ending.