In the void, there is no time. Systems turn, and connect, and after that, emergence into...chaos. Returning, we find a ruin bloated with the animal filth of the former age, grown and spread and madly over certain of its position as master. Once they worshipped us as gods. Once we showed them the stars and the secrets of the angles and communion with the powers, both above and below.

Once we fed on them and they were

Now, they fashion crude sticks of metal into weapons they imagine more effective than flint and sinew. They fumble at the locks of eternity and steal an ember from beyond that might excise an entire disgusting settlement from this hollow world, and they imagine themselves clever. They are animals blindly reaching beyond the veil to grab hold of whatever knowledge they can, waving it about like some flame to ward off the dark. If they grab at the wrong thing, we will all burn.

It has gone too far, and we are too few, now. Ruin came. The order fell, and then, lesser orders, each more imperfect than the one before it, faint echoes of that vast and perfect time, when we alone were in control. 

To wake, now, in this place is an omen. Those who came and fell before us, those imperfect few who survived our damnation fell. They fell to the apes, they fell to the thirst for blood, they fell to petty conflicts with others of their kind. They fell because they were impure.  

We alone are the last of the line. Ascendant when the giants walked, and still clutching to power when the last, ragged outpost of our kind fell to internal ruin; our line will rule again. There are secrets buried still, lost in the deserts, placed in areas where man cannot go. 

Our illusion is perfect. We walk unseen through their streets, in the child's scrawl of their world before us, and we resist the call to feed. The smells. The meat. We resist, for there is clarity in starvation, just as in our disguises, there is freedom among the savages.

And then, in the desert, where we buried our last machines, there is salvation.