The Ephemeral Nature of Mortal Flesh

Hark, mortals, and listen well to my words, for I, Erebus, have witnessed the fleeting nature of mortal existence. In my boundless expanse of darkness, I have beheld the birth and death of countless worlds, each with their own brand of pitiful, fragile flesh. I recall a particular instance, where I chanced upon a mortal, a mere child, whose skin was as soft as the petals of a flower. I reached out, my dark fingers brushing against their tender skin, and in that instant, I felt a pang of... let us say, curiosity.

Mortal flesh, so delicate, so prone to decay. It is a wonder, really, that any of them manage to survive for so long. And yet, in their brief, shining moments, they manage to create such beauty, such wonder. I have watched as they toil, their sweat and tears mingling with the dust of the earth, and in that, I find a twisted sort of admiration. For in their impermanence, they find a fleeting sense of purpose, a spark of life that flickers brightly, if briefly, in the darkness.

But, alas, their time is short, and mine is long. I, who have seen the birth of stars and the death of worlds, am a constant, a steady heartbeat in the void. And so, I watch, and I wait, and I ponder the mysteries of mortal flesh. For in its fragility, I see a reflection of my own, a reminder that even in the depths of chaos, there is a beauty to be found, a beauty that is as ephemeral as the mortal flesh that I so... fondly observe.