With A Secret Like That, At Some

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.

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.

But It All Zipped By. One Minute Marlena And I Were Up To Our Eyeballs, And The Next Thing We Knew The Kids Were Borrowing The Car And Fleeing The Coop For College. And Now, Here I Am. In My Nineties And Alone.

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

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