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.

Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.

After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.

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.

...poking a lump of red Jello that jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew.

...if you expect people to try to do things your way, you're going to have to give some hints as to what that way is.

i'm afraid to breathe in case i break the spell