It's As Though I've Been Sleepwalking And

I Think There Is Just A Vein Of Humanity That Really Loves Animals And Really Loves To Read About Them.

I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or The Other.

The More Distressing The Memory, The More Persistent It's Presence.

Sometimes I Think If I Had To Choose Between An Ear Of Corn Or Making Love To A Woman, I'd Choose The Corn.

I Used To Think I Preferred Getting Old To The Alternative, But Now I'm Not Sure. Sometimes The Momotony Of Bingo And Sing-alongs And Ancient Dusty People Parked In The Hallway In Wheelchairs Makes Me Long For Death. Particularly When I Rememver That I'm One Of The Ancient Dusty People, Filed Away Like Some Worthless Tchotchke.