Is Where You're From The Place You're

I Scan The Room. Catherine Is Writing Quickly, Her Light Brown Hair Falling Over Her Face. She Is Left-handed, And Because She Writes In Pencil Her Left Arm Is Silver From Wrist To Elbow.

So What If I'm Ninety-three? So What If I'm Ancient And Cranky And My Body's A Wreck? If They're Willing To Accept Me And My Guilty Conscience, Why The Hell Shouldn't I Run Away With The Circus?

Keeping Up The Appearance Of Having All Your Marbles Is Hard Work, But Important.

I Was Always Searching, Always Seeking The Next Big Thing, Because That Was The Thing That Was Going To Make Everything All Right Again. And While I Was Working Toward It, It Gave Me Something To Think About Other Than That Thing I Couldn't Put My Finger On. But It Always Came Back.

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