Heed the Herald's Heliograph
The furthermost extremities from centers of civilization are the most storied. They are arrested in time by subsisting within a dead space. Devoid of communication with the feedback loops of progressive acceleration, these remote and poorly connected dead ends remain inert. Nothing happens, therefore everything waits. Stasis.
Citizens from a Promethean future strive to gaze into that outer space. From fortified ivory towers, they peer through panes of glass, a boundary that divides them from the historic Other. Their zealotry towards their history compels their curious sight. But as they stare into the depths of the past, they find a familiar void. A barrier met with before, the veil that obstructs the sage's attainment of true prophetic vision and the oracle's achievement of perfect divination. That abyss hums with static noise.
The future and the past cohabitate the same corpus. Despite the vast distances that separate them, there is always a path that leads back down into the dark forest. Promethean eschatology portends a harbinger that creeps out from that ravine, clutching a mirror. He precedes the rabid debtors, those who collect the productivity of the accursed share.
From fortified ivory towers, they peer through panes of glass, a boundary they trust will safeguard them from the amassing multitude of pilgriming debtors. From the dark forest, a beam of penetrating light blazes into their chambers.
Heed the herald's heliograph. The multitude will soon be clawing at the door. Meanwhile, what is there to be done?
Smoke rises off the wicks of dying candles, casting eerie shadows on the walls of their inner chambers. All artificial light swiftly switched off as an act of denial towards imminence. The elite within huddle together, struggling to comprehend the unfolding darkness beyond.
As they debate their options, the heliograph beam intensifies, announcing the arrival of the debtors, a gathering force of merciless agents of fate. They move with a precision and purpose that unnerves even the most hardened.
The elite are gripped by fear, realizing that their hubris has led them to a point of no return. They had thought themselves invincible within their ivory walls, but now they are confronted with the crushing weight of the abyss.
In the depths of the dark forest, the herald looks on with a sardonic grin, his mirror reflecting the horror and confusion that grips the futurists. The debtors have come to claim their share, and there is no escaping the reckoning that awaits.
As the debtors swarm the citadel, the remaining candles flicker and gutter out, leaving the technocratic elite in total darkness. The only sound is the frantic beating of their hearts, as they wait for the inevitable end.
In the distance, the herald's laughter echoes through the forest. For he knows that any attempts to defy the natural order of things only lead to degradation. In the end, there is no escaping the abyss that waits patiently to consume those who dare to play god with the forces of the universe.
Fates are sealed. The ivory towers become tombs, monuments to misguided ambition. And as the darkness claims them, the herald watches with cold detachment, his mirror reflecting the eternal struggle to use up the accursed share before the end of history.
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