People a hundred years from now will say the same thing about us.
Or, given recent trends, they will speak more like:
This ain't one body's story. It's the story of us all. We got it mouth-to-mouth. You got to listen it and 'member. 'Cause what you hears today you got to tell the birthed tomorrow. I'm looking behind us now. . . across the count of time. . . down the long haul, into history back. I sees the end what were the start. It's Pox-Eclipse, full of pain! And out of it were birthed crackling dust and fearsome time. It were full-on winter and Mr. Dead chasing them all.
May come a time in the not too distant future when our descendants will look at the ruins of cities and wonder just how they were built and how we so angered the gods. They will look at the oceans and doubt the tales that at one time Men sailed those seas in ships of iron; they will look to the sky and shake their heads at the fanciful tales that Men once flew among the clouds. A few will look into the night skies and see a few scattered small lights moving against the stars, and sometimes see an old satellite fall from the sky and wonder that, just maybe, Men did indeed fly before the Dark Times came. There will be regions that It Is Known are places of sickness and demons, little understanding the radiation that poisons the landscape downwind of nuclear reactors that were allowed to melt down when the knowledge and willingness to maintain them failed. Ribbons of black rock that stretch beyond the horizon, used sometimes as pathways for those foolhardy enough to travel the bandit-filled wastes between isolated communities.
And of course, it's always possible that things could get *really* bad.