As we look out across the millennia, something grabs our attention. It seems small, weak, irrelevant. It is two wooden beams tied together. It sits two thousand years ago on a garbage dump. We almost did not see it: the light and noise pollution, the pumping soundtracks, the buzz, the tweets, and the twenty-four-hour news cycles almost took our attention away. Yet there it rudely sits. Before we know it, the noise, the heat, the distraction dies away. It rises up before us. The inane pop music is now gone, and all that remains is a steady beat, which we soon realize is our hearts pumping. Beneath our feet is dust, the dust from which we came, the dust that we will return to. Before we know it, all the lies of our culture, the spin thrown at the New Humans that youth lasts forever, that somehow the present moment will hang in the air for all eternity, are exposed. Our cosmic smallness, our fragility, our mortality is brought into the blinding light. Standing here, our pathetic attempts to become min-gods are revealed for the pitiful, cosmic charades they truly are.