And as an iteration of the universe meets its end, it is taken here. Nothing more than phantoms of dead pasts.
ELLSEE: This has bΣΣn going on for ovΣr a hundrΣd timΣs in a row¿¿
Yes, though it is the same universe. The same single life-bearing planet, remade in its own image.
The world dies, a new chronology springs from its coda, and a new species is put into play, adapted from the last.
ELLSEE: Huh. DoΣsn't that kind of... dΣfΣat thΣ purposΣ of Σxisting to bΣgin with¿¿
ELLSEE: I mΣan, ΣvΣrything that STARTS has to ΣND at somΣ point. Right¿¿¿¿
Nothing is ever meant to truly end, child.
So long as the memory is preserved, it continues onward.
What once was just changes, becomes something new.
To be alive is to endure in perpetuity, in some way or another.
Even my mother is no exception to this rule.