There's a reason they call them "the wee hours;" if you wake up then, it's probably because you have to pee. That was my half-sleeping state at 4:15 this morning, when the following poem came to me. I'd just been dreaming about someone helping me out with some little thing, and instead of just saying, "Thank you," I had said, "Undying thanks!" which, in the fog of the moment, brought on this chain of ideas.
Perpetuity
When someone gives you their undying thanks, does that mean they're long-lived or are they actually in the process of becoming undead?
Because that would be a whole other story, someone's gratitude walking around like a zombie, coming after you at all hours mooing, "thank yoooo.... thank yoooooooo..." "no, really, thaaaaaanks..." and you running away shouting, "Just take the gift! TAKE IT!! I don't want any thanks!" fleeing in the night in a panic (probably tripping over a tree root) and no matter how fast you run or how slowly the thanks lurch on you never seem to shake them.
Worse, a few of the grateful undead could infect a whole society and how would you like to be endlessly scraping your soles through the suburbs mewling your appreciation for some unforgettable favor hitching along with all your neighbors in a perpetual bowing contest straight out of The Mikado?
Better, I think, to give thanks in the moment, watching their brief, sweet dispersion as they rise to heaven and disappear
leaving us free, once again, to choose whether the next moment will inspire our gratitude or just another chance to confront the immortal temptation to complain.