Nothing wrong.

Dark haired princess from the continent that’s the darkest. She has coal in her eyes and she can see nothing unless she has planned it years upon years in advance. She loves to burn the bodies of others, ruin the life of the pedestrians.
She’s on a boat. She’s beebopping in the rhythm of a Nordic explorer. She’s with her man, who may not be the man but he’s a man with all the equivalent parts. He’s the traveler that's forever moving in you. He is always changing, with the aid of a steel horse; he is constantly cheating death.
He was supposed to die 14 years ago, so he was told by the head mystic of the princess’ reign. He kept going because if he never stopped moving, then death couldn’t sneak up on him. He’d had several battles with the outdated specter already; each time he had slashed mortality with a gaudy knife he kept in his fake third leg.
The water was making a crumbling sound, like intestines after a big shot of coke.
“Straight to the heart,” the mover and shaker said to the princess, wooing her with words stolen from the universal script. “We’re going to need another pop top.”
She pulled a small vial out of her hair and her color paled slightly in the presence of the substance, pure distillation from the mystic. It was her soul in commercial form. He snatches it from her and puts in a pipe that he begins burning and they both detach their noses to get more fumes. He takes her all in one breath.
It was the most enhanced of the intoxicants, besides when he’d got all he needed out of her, he wouldn’t need her, death would take her, and leave him be. He had many more rugs to cut.
“Health concerns nothing wrong with doing this stuff, as long as you’re still moving.”