“The jungle, the terrible, devastating, impulsive jungle, is like man's life. For years, it patiently nurses the majesty of its trees, and alongside that majesty, the very source of its own destruction. And so comes the day on which all that majesty falls back down to the earth and returns to dust and ash—and not by chance, but from that very devastating seed of destruction, that majesty created by the jungle itself. So is man, so was I, like the jungle: I destroyed my majesty; I, with the very hands with which I am writing these words, cast my monumental dreams to the ground.”
―
Rafael Bernal,
His Name was Death
