February seventeenth and eighteenth time

The last rose standing in the garden is the most ugly, and the most beautiful. The most beautiful by default, the most ugly by design. Isn't that marvelous? Are people that way, sometimes? Do the lovely ones get picked off early by other Universes, by Death? Will Death come covered in the finest roses; thirsty for the wisdom and longevity of the deformed? Is it obvious if one is an early rose or a late rose? In this place, are infinity and infamy one and the same?