You already know everything this chapter is going to tell you. That is precisely its argument. The knowledge that nothing lasts sits in every human chest like a splinter too deep to pull out — acknowledged, ignored, buried under ten thousand plans. Valluvar's chapter on impermanence does not philosophize from a mountaintop. It builds a sequence of increasingly visceral images: a crowd dispersing after a show, a blade disguised as a calendar, a bird abandoning its shell, sleep and waking cycling without rest. Each kural tightens the screw one turn further, moving from wealth's fragility to the body's betrayal to the soul's homelessness. The chapter opens by calling ignorance of impermanence the lowest form of stupidity, and closes by asking whether the soul has ever — in all its wandering through body after body — found a single permanent address. The answer, left hanging in silence, is the most unsettling thing in the entire Book of Virtue.