The end of the world is not the end of the world. Humans have existed on Earth for just a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of its existence; the planet will continue to rotate on its axis long after we Homo sapiens sapiens have incinerated ourselves through some horrific, yet statistically insignificant rapture of our own making. After the earth moves under our feet and the sky tumbles down, who or what will appreciate our songs, poems, and pictures about it? It is a fever dream, a fool’s fantasy, to latch onto any one earthling’s intrinsic value when they were nothing just a brief rewind or fast-forward into the past or future.