You are standing at the peak of a bottomless mountain.
You lived for many years in a village on its western face. For generations, your people have watched the sun sink, wondering if it will ever set once and for all. For as long as you can remember, it has been an insignificant orange dot quivering at the edge of vision, some odd celestial artifact that the magi gaze into with telescopes before engraving their prophecies into living stone. "The sun is our gatekeeper to the great abyss," they would say. "It holds back the endless darkness that separates us from the world below."
Even so, a traveler arrived several days ago, his face stained with filth and the madness that looms before death. "I have come to conquer this mountain for the glory of a nation whose name I do not know," he coughed. "My mother bestowed upon me this flag, which was in turn given to her by her father. It comes from a land at the base of the mountain, where the sun yet rises in the east and sets in the west. I have lived my entire life on this mountain, yet I have sired no children of my own to carry the flag forward. My bones are too heavy to rise much further, and I fear the efforts of my ancestors shall be in vain. Please, someone, take up my flag and end this journey."
Perhaps it was a madness of your own, or perhaps even pity, but you agreed to carry out the old hermit's wishes, knowing full well you could never return for having believed such a heresy. For several days you wandered higher and higher, enduring nature's most treacherous ordeals. You anchored your tent to a glacier with rope and axe and slept in zero gravity. You allowed purple ice to melt in your hands and became drunk on its twisted waters. You even fought a wild constellation and pierced its brilliant flesh with three tungsten arrows, but not before its jaws sank into your side.
The flag of the unknown nation waves in some directionless wind. All the color has faded from what few shreds of its canvas remain, leaving behind only the shadows and outlines of its former stripes. You can feel the blood continuing to seep from your wound, but right now, it doesn't seem to matter. You gaze back down the western slope, down into the great abyss of your prophets, and witness the first sunset of your life.