The best-laid plans of mice and men always gang agley, given enough time.
Nothing rises but to fall.
The solid ground on which we walk is fractured plates floating on molten magma. What we call walking is really falling and catching yourself, over and over and over again. Until you miss. Nature keeps her forests tidy with lightning bolts and forest fires, tweaks her designs via typos in the genetic code, and is the inventor of the concept of planned obsolescence. We exist between the last giant meteor and the next.