I can smell vanity a mile away,

Like a festering wound covered up

In finest perfume and cleverest shadows.

Some things ought to rot

Be swept away and sucked under.

If you could live forever

Would you really want to?

The promise of death is a blessing.

I’ll be vile enough a creature

In eighty long years.

I don’t want to meet the person

Who’s hitched a thousand rides

Around the sun, insistent it’s still fun.

– Vagabond Prophet