And look it's clear: there's evidence
we passed this way back when
we were three-toed, big-legged,
five-ton sauropods in search of
a new feeding ground.
We were slowed but not stopped
by the squelchy conditions, our
passage fossilised for future rock
detectives as we left literal
footprints in the sands of time.
Nowadays, our weight is more ephemeral,
pixels preserved by Google
Chrome and Cronos. My digital
fingerprints include dead actors from old
episodes of "Doctor Who",
C-4 plastic explosives and a brief
history of "Mayfair" magazine.
All in an editorial research role, of course.
And when I'm gone, a few friends
and family may help keep me alive by
talk or thought or reading...
for a while at least. Then all
memory and trace will get absorbed
into the rock strata,
the rare minerals of internet
space, this mine too huge
and wide to ever become exhausted
but which might yet be lost or rendered
inaccessible
when human society collapses.
On our summer holiday, we walked
on the dunes and the mudflats.
We left traces of ourselves
which were later buried by the busy
sandworms or washed by the incoming tide.
Yes, I took home a razorshell
and some belemnites.
Don't crucify me for beach vandalism.
