Must Protect My Little Pockets Of Happiness.

Is Where You're From The Place You're Leaving Or Where You Have Roots?

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?

I Cling To My Anger With Every Ounce Of Humanity Left In My Ruined Body, But It's No Use. It Slips Away, Like A Wave From Shore. I Am Pondering This Sad Fact When I Realize The Blackness Of Sleep Is Circling My Head. It's Been There Awhile, Biding It's Time And Growing Closer With Each Revolution. I Give Up On Rage, Which At This Point Has Become A Formality, And Make A Mental Note To Get Angry Again In The Morning. Then I Let Myself Drift, Because There's Really No Fighting It.

All Right. Let's Give You Something To Tell Your Grandkids About. Or Great-grandkids. Or Great-great-grandkids." I Snort With Glee, Delirious With Excitement. Charlie Winks And Pours Me Another Finger's Worth Of Whiskey. Then, On Second Thought, He Tips The Bottle Again. I Reach Out And Grab Its Neck. "better Not," I Say. "don't Want To Get Tipsy And Break A Hip.

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