Alexander Scriabin

Previously

…But as the exhaustion set in, a new kind of chill began to creep into his bones, a coldness that had nothing to do with the approaching autumn. He felt a weariness that went deeper than physical fatigue, a sense of his own finite existence pressing in on the vastness of his creation. The race against time, it seemed, had been a more personal one than he had initially realized. The symphony of his life was reaching its final, inevitable cadence.