In another time, another Caesar looked out towards the horizon to the East. As the sun rose over the flat land, its fire fuelled his passions, which he gave to the people in return for their own. They too were poor, meager creatures ready to hear that they would never have enough and that the only worthy creed was more. Eternity must be theirs and they would reach for it on the Eastern horizon. In a clutch with the people, he had rolled like a conquering fireball across the land, sparing its riches and incinerating those deemed unnecessary. He had shaken hands with his enemies who had been fool enough to believe him, and devoured their handshakes with relish. Each one was food for the attainment of the only thing that meant anything to him. Power, power and more power.
One day in the past, one day in the future, power becomes weary of its abuse. It begins to fall apart, like a flower losing its petals. Power doesn't die, but recedes to the earth in waiting for a more or less craving Caesar.
A snow storm puts out the fire, leaving Caesar standing alone on a cold tundra without a horizon. Without power, he lets himself be buried by it like a helpless bird.
Caesar retreats behind the cold, gold doors and speeds to the top of his citadel to escape the people's jeers below. There he remains and tends to his neon teeth that have begun to him to look yellow.