Human civilisation achieved great technological and existential heights before its fall. The Humans arrived at a point of awareness and acceptance, finally capable of rationalising and being reasonable about their inevitable demise. Death and life, while still admired for their wonder and intricacy, were no longer defining forces. The accompanying emotions, which remained and were still savoured, did not truly infringe upon the Human higher conscienceness. Every human understood its place in the robust Universal system, and was content to fill that niche.
	Their machines, while never acquiring self-awareness, became more and more complex, and smaller and smaller, until eventually the Humans abandoned their synthetic materials in favour of utilizing the Earth's nature's design. Terminals got smaller and smaller until they became no single system, but rather a complex group of nanotechnological machines. These nanotechs were eventually inferior for reproduction, and a new wave of biomechanical engineers took the mantle of progress. In this time, Human engineers created thousands of microscopic organic machines which would do about any task imaginable.
	The Humans, with all their humility and technology, decided to leave a monument to their civilisation, a reminder of their culture, which would not be an act of self-celebration, but rather an act of archeological understanding—an attempt to leave less puzzling clues for any civilisation that should want to know more about the Humans after they were all dead. The engineers constructed a particularly durable creature with an innate understanding of the Humans greatest and most useful achievement: their language. This species, this machine, had the one sole purpose of engraving its message on all the rocks it could find. 
	The creature flourished, the nutrients gained from ingesting the rock-shavings produced by the engraving process being more than ample for health and reproduction. A swarm of the invisible creatures would descend on a rock, and in several weeks time a word and its meaning would be carved into it.
	The organism was wired so that it would first record all the corporeal nouns, with a short written definition and a precise two-dimensional illustration. Once a creature had received the message from others of its kind that the nouns had all been engraved, the creature would engrave more and more abstract and complex words and grammatical concepts, until there came a time that there was not a rock on or in the planet that did not have writing engraved in it. This time came long after the Humans had left.
	So completely had the organism done its job that its population dwindled because the process of forming new rocks was unable to keep up with them. Eventually, after a particularly bad century, the organism became completely extinct. But this was not the end of life on Earth, no. This was just the beginning of a brand new lifeform.
	Soon this lifeform evolved into a sentient being, self-aware and intelligent. The new lifeforms began to develop advanced social culture, and would build shelters for protection, and far, far up toward the poles, these shelters were made out of stone. Stones which looked just like any other stones on the planet, possessing the same queer scratches and pictures which had become so familiar and mundane. The same stones used to make tools and temples.
	In the wall of one of these crude northern shelters, there is a stone with a slight crack running along its circumference.  It reads, "Human" [1] and has a little picture. Above the stone and over to the right a couple, another stone also helps to maintain the integrity of the structure. It reads [1]:

	for·get    ( P )  Pronunciation Key  (fr-gt, fôr-)
	v. for·got, (-gt) for·got·ten, (-gtn) or for·got for·get·ting, for·gets 
	v. tr.
	1. To be unable to remember (something). 
	2. To treat with thoughtless inattention; neglect. 
	3. To leave behind unintentionally. 

[1]:translated into English.