Prodigal

In the fourteenth century, the Soul was transformed into Flesh. By the end of the twentieth century,  Flesh was supplanted by Artifice. Now, in the twenty-first century, the march into the land of synthetics has begun in earnest. And yet, we convulse and sputter to a halt as this final bridge draws near. Which begs a question of you, disciple of Artifice: if our aim were true, and the path ahead righteous, why are we immobilized by fear? Why are we, at the cusp of a new era, brought to our knees in wailing despair?