What is the perfect harmony with a setting sun and a desolate field extending to the horizon as the backdrop? One of them must be something sacred yet blasphemous. Then the flamboyant fire devouring the only hope upon the barren and the declining (yet emitting such a glaring glow) is relentless, celebratory, yet unambiguously the work of man.

Where hides the culprit, the protagonist? He’s not hiding—he’s looking at his work. There is a time when destruction and oblivion must come from the hands of someone close, someone inevitable. The feeling of obliterating something by one’s own hands is triumphant, dazzling, but ultimately, painful.