Here we stand, against the wind, facing the future. Who are we, you ask?

Why, we are the lackluster children of suns. Born a generation too late in a world that is too vast to change, we are pale shadows of the ones we came from. We are smaller, more desperate. Our faces don't glow. Our scars stand out starker.

We are as lost as you were, but cold and ineffectual. Our love is impulsive, lasting hours, not years. Our sadness is quiet and diffuse. We have no convictions to light us the way.

As we live, the world dies, drowned in the filth that you left us. Brighter than you and a little less sane, we live to right your wrongs.

You speak in languages we do not understand, and laugh at the follies of youth - so we laugh in response and silently curse your ineptitude.

Subtle silver, not brazen gold, we are so much more eloquent. And yet we choke on our words. Our faces whiten and smooth out. Somehow, we are frayed at the edges - damaged, or incomplete.

And so, with all of your anger and none of your will, all of your might and none of your focus, with all of your fear and none of your glory, we will be the ones to do it right.

We know better.