We age peculiarly
similar to the entrancing action of a snake molting.
Every layer peeled off reveals a more beautifully
enhanced version of ourselves.
Rip. Rip. Rip. Rip.
We are born with a set amount of layers.
However, the exact number evades us.
Rip. Rip. Rip.
Death takes us when we surpass our given number.
Is the societal idea of beauty addictive?
Rip. Rip.
Will everyone succumb to the pressure
will the mortality rate fall?
How many layers do you have left?
R. I. P.

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