Since we do nothing in this confused world
That lasts or that, lasting, is of any worth,
And even what’s useful for us we lose
            So soon, with our own lives,
Let us prefer the pleasure of the moment
To an absurd concern with the future,
Whose only certainty is the harm we suffer now
            To pay for its prosperity.
Tomorrow doesn’t exist. This moment
Alone is mine, and I am only who
Exists in this instant, which might be the last
            Of the self I pretend to be.