Where is the sun? Behind a mountain of civilization. A city of stunted history left like a forest of stumps; columns stinging with decay thrust against the wind. The wind - that tireless monarch, exhaling erosion which coils about every fiber. I’ve heard the Parthenon was a temple of resplendent awe, a towering glory with which Pericles lavished his city. When was it destroyed again? Surely not even stumps are left now, only dust like this tawny sea which fills our lungs. What is this place? A refuge? A sigh in war? We need Pericles now.  Too often our enemies surround us. This city is merely a testament to such trials, to such inevitability (time and gravity indomitably prevail). We’ve found the best room we could, restructured the walls, reinforced until the end. This is our Acropolis. Our last stand against the endless engine. They come in small scouting forces now, scraping along the edges, looking for us like a snake hunts an egg. Night brings noises chilling as the weather. No need to engage yet: we must wait in obscurity, patient as The Traveler floats above, awaiting our return. This scourge must believe we’re trammelled in a cave without exits, that the walls we’ve chosen are no more than a self assembled prison, or better: a tomb. Even I can grasp fragments of their choking language: ‘cannot’ and ‘out’. For the most part, they're right.  But we have hope! Yes, that great tormentor, hope, has not abandoned us yet. Many fireteams are coming. We are overrun for now, but our walls are strong. This messy bulwark shall last. Our bitter wills are set. The rain starts slowly, but soon we shall be a storm.  When will we ever have time to rebuild all this?  I’ll see you soon.