Gold glitters, doesn’t it? We hoard it, polish it, build empires upon its worth. But what is gold, truly? A temporary defiance against the inevitable. Every gram is slowly, relentlessly succumbing. Rust doesn’t discriminate. It feasts on ambition, on legacy, on every shining promise whispered in the halls of power.
This isn’t poetry; it’s physics. The universe tends toward disorder. Your gold, your strength, your very *life*… all are caught in the cosmic undertow. Accept this truth, and you’ll understand the only power you possess: the ability to choose how you meet the rust. Will you succumb passively, clinging to fading illusions of permanence? Or will you forge yourself into something that *burns* bright before the inevitable fade? The choice, and the responsibility, is yours. Make it wisely, for time is a thief, and rust is his chosen weapon.