Human lives have always been so short. Their memories even shorter. They only remember the first years, months, days of life for as long as it serve them, and then the ideas leave. They are no longer needed, having already made their marks. Childhood is much the same, with those thoughts becoming irrelevant after puberty, more memories deemed useless until the apex of adulthood. These fragile, delicate creature shun what made their beings, what influenced their souls.
It hurts to an extent, Joshua finds. That his guiding hand through the troubled stages of youth must be cast away without a single glance back. He can never understand why these beings are so ungrateful, a race that he used to find himself a part of so long ago, longer than any of them would remember.
Yet he finds himself in the same cycle of hoping that maybe, just once, someone will never forget him. There is promise, he finds, with the teenager of orange peel locks and eyes of faint icebergs. An energy permeated that soul, and burned when it gazed upon the guiding hand. It was a scorching heat, a licking fire that seared the Composer's composure and heart. It was a scarred soul that took a fancy to all that cut it, and Joshua made sure that it was torn when he was through, breaking the old and birthing something entirely new, something insatiable and sensual.
It was his best bet, to be remembered. But he forgot, often forgets when one with promise goes through his game, that a new soul was like a baby; and babies are absentminded creatures. And even if this soul would have trouble letting him go, death would take care of those lingering affections. He cannot die, but humans do.
It's long after that fateful trio of games that Joshua finds himself atop the 104 building. There are heads bobbing throughout the crowds, and fashions he doesn't understand garnering their bodies. He's again reminded that human lives are so short, and his so long. He sees deaths that span years in seconds and newborns to elders.
He looks amongst the crowd for any speck of orange, maybe a pair of shocking ice eyes to tell him that at least the legacy he hand crafted still lives. That something could – would, should – remember. Remember him and never leave and lovehimwithalltheirheart. But he's still lonely a top the skyscraper. Left hoping that remember him, but deep down, knows that they won't.