Our narcissism is stained. Each snapshot in vain, collated into the abysmal memory hole of the virtual world, the virtual plane.
I've taken ill, my psyche's grown sick. For which, I'll have to find myself a cure. Find myself something pure. Find myself something beautiful that'll endure. Of which, I won't need to capture a photo to make sure, to make sure there's proof of beauty, proof of youth, proof of symmetry, proof of life. Because life itself blossoms lovely, without your incessant navel-gazing. Yea, we get it, you look amazing.