don't ever change, you hungry little bashful hound I have realized that I need to be more fabulous. Ghost has worn down my fabulosity and enshrouded me in some lackluster encasing. So stale. But this coat of powdered apathy will be shucked off of me in but nine most hopefully brisk days, and then as Christ transfigured before his disciples, so will I transfigure before you. And I'll radiate so purely.
So clean and new, but vaguely reminiscent of the old. My ancient glory tarnished as silver is, that is, hidden yet unchanged behind a smear of black.
We'll mix the wines and throw them into new wineskins, and make the old wineskins into belts, which we will wear around our waists, so proud as we say "behold how these thin strands sway, as though inhabited by the Maker herself." and we will remember. And we will fashion idols of gold and song, and throw exploding flowers at my feet.
And that is how my seventh reincarnation will be.
