It is never Neverday.
It is impossible to celebrate.
But is it definitely indefinite?
Mistrust a melancholy monopoly
of nostalgiamancers,
liars alive with elision,
denouncing Dingbot the Nearly-Eternal
for its unforgivable anopathia.
What if time and entropy are the same thing?
The more we endure a deathless life,
the more we dream of a lifelike death.
Death, though, provides no muse.
The two great deceptions of the body:
love, and the self.