Being The Survivor Stinks.

I Hate This Bizarre Policy Of Protective Exclusion, Because It Effectively Writes Me Off The Page.

My Platitudes Don't Hold Their Interest And I Can Hardly Blame Them For That. My Real Stories Are All Out Of Date. So What If I Can Speak Firsthand About The Spanish Flu, The Advent Of The Automobile, World Wars, Cold Wars, Guerrilla Wars, And Sputnik — That's All Ancient History Now. But What Else Do I Have To Offer? Nothing Happens To Me Anymore. That's The Reality Of Getting Old, And I Guess That's Really The Crux Of The Matter. I'm Not Ready To Be Old Yet.

Even When I Look Straight Into The Milky Blue Eyes I Can't Find Myself Any More. When Did I Stop Being Me?

I Have To Convince Myself That This Is Not A Pointless Life, Even The Body Is Telling Me So.

How Is It That Everyone On This Train Has So Much Alcohol?" "we Always Head To Canada At The Beginning Of The Season," She Says Taking Her Seat Again. "their Laws Are Much More Civilized. Cheers.