Maybe when I am eighty i’ll dye my hair white, for it might have lost less darkness than I have gained in parchments – Wrinkles, memorabilia, thousands of ancient PDF documents. When i’m hundred i’ll whisper to the stars that they can be young. Two hundred years of age, if attainable, will be an incentive to sleep with machines and love their groaning, creaking, and the scratch marks, paint spots on their synthetic skin. A thousand years might pass and my bones might scream, about having too many descendants to able to donate bone marrow to – But technology has long superseded my emotional capacity, and I start to hear the lunar soil croon from a long slumber. Ten thousand years of age and i’m gas in Jupiter’s stratosphere, turbulent, in love with Brownian motion and its assurance that what goes around comes around. Spread my consciousness to the filaments and the voids once I become as old as humanity, for there is no End to Greatness, no end to beauty and the memory of life and death, the warm hands of either.