Every good time that goes on too long turns into a hell.
After sixty, the self-questioning of middle age is obsolete.
Beauty and virtue: the most kissable ass in the world is no guarantee of good intentions.
My neglected duties crowd around me in my dreams, murmuring.
A dense undergrowth of extension cords sustains my upper world of lights, music, and machines of comfort.
Position yourself well enough, and circumstances will do the rest.