In a century the plants will cover our memories. The fences we partitioned, the walls we we set to divide the land, all buried beneath the intertwining mass of green and black ivy.

Our bodies long dead, voices lost, all that held meaning dissapeared. Dissolved to dust and wind. And our songs have all stopped, their notes imprinted in our genetic code, dust and wind.

Trees expanding boundless into the sky, with boughs that stoop so low they almost touch the earth. Wild grasses consuming all obstructions in their path, reaching upwards through the shadows of larger plant life.

In the middle of the field, with its paint peeling in the sunlight, stripped to the white wood base beneath corroding lacquer and paint, a piano disintegrates continuously, and on its base there are one hundred keys, chipped, cracked, worn to the plastic center.

The body still stands, holding strings too rusted to sing. In one hundred more years, there will be nothing to find here evident of the music that was once composed.