My dearest friends,
I have foreseen for some time the eventuality that one of us would die, and even through my massive hubris, I knew it very well might be me. The people cheer us on like gods, and perhaps we are quite like the old, pre-Christian gods, for they were, in some sense, mortal. Pan is dead, but so too the whole pantheon. The twelve thrones of Olympus have become but weathered tombstones, forgotten memorials only observed by graverobbing intellectuals like myself. I have been meditating upon death. Death was a god. I wonder if death may one day die. That future I cannot see.
But my hand is forced now. We each have our own gifts. Mine was precognition, which is perhaps the loneliest of powers. Try having a conversation with someone when you know everything he’s going to say. Try having a romance without mystery. We are in a tailspin now. I am the first, but we all must, in due time, die.
I can leave you my money, which you don’t need, my advice, which I know you won’t take, but I can’t leave myself, my knowledge, my power. You are all without a guide now.
Also, they’re coming up the stairs as you read this. Kill them quickly. The lawyer should have machine guns ready for you. Your powers aren’t gone forever. They’ll be back in a week.
Please place a white rose over my grave.
~Prometheus
Tale Told 