A favorite number

White fleeting thought chased bubbles sandal-splashed feet puddles in shade in shine in flickering flickering bickered wickered sunburst starshine moat. Weathered bluff, wind-drifted, feathered mouthful of fluff. How do ideas take shape? These gestures to get fingers rolling reaching touching typing freewriting to overcome a supposed bottlenecked traffic jam of flow? (Bottleneck, bottle-naked, bottleneckéd effect)

Age is a label (one side sticky) ruthlessly slapped onto the side of our tin glass jar skin. Our preserved contents are unaffected (unless exposed to open air), but that smooth exterior is not above the wear and tear of time. Another year 'til my supposed peak, an inflection point after which bears characterization of increasing disparity between perception of the self and perception by the outside.

What do we project?

We live most of our life post our biological prime.

Why is this not horrifying to anyone else (our age)? Death hasn't bothered me since age six, but the concept (and unspoken prospect) of physical and mental deterioration is suddenly terrifying.

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If rarity defines value a la 物以稀为贵, then does transience mark beauty? Transience at the root of all worldly tragedies. Transience as proof of life.

We can only pretend to share a nosferatu's point of view.

Sibyl, who asked Apollo for eternal life, failed to also specify eternal youth. How easily we assume the two go hand in hand.