Impermanence is the only coworker who doesn’t call in sick!

Time, our dearly beloved landlord, charges rent in wrinkles and memory lapses, and doesn’t even offer a security deposit refund.

We obsess over productivity apps while quietly rotting from the inside, like bananas in dress shirts. Death, that punctual party crasher, RSVPs to every soul’s soirée with the same blunt message: “You don’t live here.” And yet we decorate the collapsing ruins of our lives with scented candles and motivational wall art, pretending permanence is a subscription we forgot to cancel.

The present moment? It vanishes faster than my will to attend meetings. One minute I exist, the next I'm nostalgia in someone else's Instagram story.

Impermanence is the only coworker who never calls in sick. Every breath is a layoff notice for the last one, and each heartbeat is a countdown with a cheerful beat. Conditioned existence is the kind of guest that eats all your food, ghosts you mid-conversation, then leaves a Post-it saying “transient, evanescent, inconstant.”

Change doesn’t knock—it just kicks the door off its hinges and redecorates with decay.

We treat time like a project manager, expecting growth milestones, while it quietly files everything under “disintegration.”

Absence is the most reliable presence in the room, always dressed in black, always ready to remind us this gig is strictly temporary.

We are cosmic Airbnb guests trashing the place and then demanding eternal checkouts. Development is just a fancy word for slowly disappearing in more complicated ways. And still, we chase legacy like it’s not just a more pretentious word for compost.