His roar, reader, as when the foaming torrent bursts its banks, swelled by the spring thaw coursing down the mountainside, and on the water rushes, no hope, no remedy, erasing all our works, the well-tilled fields, the orchards, years of labor swallowed into nothing, just so I felt oblivion's inexorable yawn in Caesar's roar, and Death's behind it.

— Perhaps the Stars by Ada Palmer (39%)