You're lucky, you know, young sir.
Your face will not fall into lines and you will never wither and fail and have to watch yourself degrade, be given a seat on the bus, a taxi called for you as you leave a shop with empty bags filled with value promises, your body parts replaced until you're more than half-recycled titanium, knowing that you're doomeddoomeddoomed but going out with as little dignity as the modern world can manufacture.
You will never be scared of the streets and the cut-throat carcasses that impersonate the young, never slip and break all because you've become as fragile as a Fabergé egg, whose fault lines too could conceal golden greatness within.
You will never be disillusioned, disavowed nor diagnosed as a faulty by-product of society, to crumble in corners as they count up the continued cost your existence creates and shake their heads.
No, Arthur, this was for the best, you did say that you would never make it past 28?
So many young mouths have echoed this, eyes wide and unlined and naive, brazen to time and unwilling to succumb to its effects regardless of the life lived in between.
It was for the best then, that speeding car and your drunken feet, inebriated on the futility of existence and the unforgiving slip of time. Never mind the driver, the hopeful fool going anywhere until she met you, never mind the infinite loss of possibility to your future self, nor the silence in the halls since you left, yes the trees still sing on as your mother cries.