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We were children once…or rather we were angels. One might still hear the echoes of that decrepit mantra in distant worlds still ardently subscribing to the opium of delusion. Here, however, that notion is no longer heard among us…although it might still be whispered in the darkest chambers of the ever-reclusive strongholds of our minds. How desperately do we want to believe that heaven is not so far away?

My name is Uriel Sinclair, and I am the daughter of a great man. I, like him, remember the former days when our lives were so much calmer. I still dream, as he does, of the pleasant years when we were given to fantasies of solace, then still attainable, and I still hear in my thoughts, as he always has, the laughter that we shared so freely once. With those sustaining notions, I explore the far more distant times when we were well acquainted with the twin virtues of contentment, Beauty and Peace, both of which are now nothing more than vague memories and abstract caricatures of egocentric ideology.

I have a story to tell. But this tale is not about me, at least not in the conventional sense. In fact, you may easily forget in time that the images in your mind are my voice whispering, alas in extremis, in the depths of your being. But that is quite all right, for this is my story, in a sense. You see, these people are, in some form or other, innately a part of me, and I of them. I know them, even those who I may never meet, and I love and hate them fervently, as though they were all here with me now. As though they could know intrinsically that we are the same, them and I, them and you, and thus, you and I.

You cannot cherish the touch of an enigma, nor can you meaningfully despise it for the virulence that it chauvinistically causes. Nor can you mourn its passing, in accord with renaissance or degeneration. For in an enigma the dearth or intolerable potency of human sentiment leaves only tolerance for a vacuum in which our organic emotions cannot thrive.

And thus we fall.

Perhaps it is a shame that this little amour between our rational thoughts and our impossible dreams was ostensibly ill fated, even in the incipient stages. Perhaps it is a horror that we only ever possessed the most infinitesimal hope of attaining something more than oblivion in superficial bliss and the travesty of joy. Perhaps I am wrong to remember and reminisce to you now. Perhaps I shall suffer dearly for this recollection. If so, then, then let the woes of the divine fall as they may, for I have nothing left to fear losing now that I have lost so much already and shall lose so much more within a very short window of time.

I am alive, as I pray that you will continue to be, even after I am gone. This is my story, which does not yet include me. These are our hopes, and we entrust them to you. Cleave to our dreams and remember, for this record is not mine to keep. But I can give it to you. Remember as I have, and let us not fall in vain, for the artifice of ages still abounds beyond these walls. It took all of them, they say, but there was nothing to take…

I remember the dead, as we are all taught from our weaning, and I mourn for the living. There was too much to lose.