Description
We live and we die, our atoms never disappearing just changing form over and over - into the dust under our feet.
Our palaces of stone will not protect us from our death or our bodies decay.
Us mammals covered in hair that rail against our aging, our inevitable death and yet all that came before is already dust and we will go to meet those atoms soon enough.
I once made a ceramic pot and returned it to the wild to be washed away by the rain - a friend said to me “I wonder if that clay will ever remember it was a pot”
Just dust and hair.
