What were those dinosaurs truly about? Those brutish Neanderthals—shadowy echoes lingering in caves? The Stone Age figures, sculpted crudely from blood and bone? Those primitive hunter-gatherers, wandering endlessly in the cold, waiting desperately for extinction? Nobody knows. Perhaps they were mere prototypes, grotesque rough drafts abandoned by a creator unsatisfied with His monstrous work—early sketches of humanity, discarded and buried beneath the merciless sands of time.

If the tales of hunter-gatherers and Neanderthals are true—if evolution is the cold, indifferent law of existence—then everything is hollow. Just flesh stacked on bones, crawling from caves to skyscrapers with no meaning but decay. We’re not chosen, not special. Just accidents of biology, brief sparks in a dying cosmos. God? There is no God—only silence. The stars don’t watch. The heavens don’t care. We are a grain of dust spinning in blackness, destined to vanish without memory, without purpose, without redemption.