This will be our archival footage, our crinkling black wax phonograph. One hundred and thirty years from now pale students wearing even paler robes will search for us, growing weary and red-eyed, their late night efforts seemingly futile. Then a spark, and a glint, and an opening in the tunnel.
There they are. This is what they looked like. This is what their voices sounded like. These are the foods they ate. These were their words and these are their brushstrokes in the thick oil paint. They were so like us, and their hearts beat in rhythm before slowing, and fading, and evaporating into cotton white nothing.
Stars, every one of us.