The future is not female. Nor is it male.

The future is death, and you cannot escape it.

Underneath the gloom of the star-deprived night's sky, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, and Cygnus are all but blotted out by metropolitan light-pulse.

The fragrance of jasmine incense still clinging to your bedroom walls in the morning, as rigor mortis greets the first daylight in mourning.

The black mass inhabiting your chest that had you immunosuppressed, tormented and compressed, until it induced cardiac arrest.

An unbalmed body without casket, buried six feet underground takes a decade to decompose–as the echos of weeping friends who never knew your middle name decrescendo, you become fleshmeal to insects and their shadows.

Death is unforgiving and non-discriminatory, so please, live each day with love, passion, and Memento Mori.