399 BC: an old man sits in the baking heat of the town square in Athens drinking a cup of thick, dark brew. His feet are bare and calloused, his beard white and unkempt.

Socrates knows that he will die. We will all die, but he will die soon; the cup in his hand gives him a matter of minutes. He swirls the substance around and drains it, swallowing decisively.

He does not know if he will be remembered. There are no writings that he will leave for posterity, curled up in a parchment or carved in stone.

He does not approve of the modern technology of writing because he believes it rots the mind, robbing man of his capacity for memory and mental reflection.

He came to the city to sting it awake, attaching himself to the cradle of democracy to provoke it.

His job is done: 501 of his fellow citizens were so enraged by his ideas and their effect on the precious young minds of Athens that he has been sentenced to death by drinking the hemlock he holds in his hands.