and just how does one measure true antiquity?
hours and days become more and more meaningless as centuries pile on.
not that they meant much before the dawn of consciousness.
a poison spilling from the sky disguised as brilliant shining emeralds. bringing with them mortality, and the true understanding of it.
the dying screams of my fellow mammoths haunt my dreams to this day, which have become all but indiscernible from my reality.
the emerald that keeps me alive, trapped within my body, it cannot be destroyed or removed. not by me. not by anyone who's tried.
lost legacies and the deaths of millions, unnoticed as they are trampled under the uncaring feet of the living.
god is dead. the angels are dead. the world is dying. and though i decay, i continue to live on a conscious wasteland in my own right.
in a mammoth graveyard where nothing can grow. how i yearn for greener pastures.