I know how this ends, the way it has always ended, with Alexandria in flames.
But we are not there yet.
Hello, my Marcus Antonius. The time is nigh, and things are moving now, swifter, like the speeding of the current that will bear me to Tarsus. Already you can hear the distant music and chanting, smell the perfume that carries across the water. They will be running to you to bring word of me, Aphrodite come to Dionysus. But will you believe it when you see it? And shall we start a club?
Inimitable, yes, save for cycles of lifetimes that play out the same game again and again. You may sharpen your sword; I’ll go in search of a snake.
But again: we are not there yet.
For now, enjoy the flowers and the wine, the music and the meat. They will talk about us now as they did then, a story for the ages. The sun reflected against silver and gold, or the spotlight—the heat is the same. And there is always the hope we may set the wheel, as well as the world, on fire, thus charring fate before it burns through us.