An old man, wizened with age was there at the beginning. He tells people what it was like before and how it changed, how people changed and how the meanings of words were changed. Where the buildings came from, what the manuscripts really say. They laugh at him as he sits there, sprouting yellow flowers, with moss growing on his feet. A butterfly flutters onto his bald head for an instant. They laugh at him and ignore him. What a sad sad old man, he doesn't realise that this is how it always was and he was "programmed" by those stuffy old parents and our repressive societies to not question. They don't realise how old he is, they don't read the manuscripts. They don't realise that the new paradigm they create itself drugs them from questioning that one question, "Who built our city?". They comfort each other by constructing a statue of their parents which they yell and woop around every night as they drink themselves into a stupor. "We" made "you" they say to the dead parents, "we" now define our reality. "You never existed", you only designed "your" reality to hide from us the true nature of things, that there is no true nature. But the grand palaces and stone halls, the lush orchards, the giant trees around them remain a silent testimony to something older, much older than them. As the sun rises and they fall into a drunken slumber the old man sighs and waits for the rain or for a kind heart to come and water him, for he is so old now that he has turned into a tree.