The Old Scoundrel Is Toxic

The new chill returns, striking blind old eyes. After a few grand dreams, white hair brings a laugh. My body is like an old tree, riddled with illness and decay. I might as well borrow a few years from heaven and earth. To grow old and still not die, what a rascal. But as long as you stay alive, the day will come when you become a spirit. This is the story of a transmigrator who will be sixty-eight forever.