I have to convince myself that this is not a pointless life, even the body is telling me so.

I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

... a gaggle of old ladies is glued to the window at the end of the hall like children or jailbirds. They're spidery and frail, their hair as fine as mist. Most of them are a good decade younger than me, and this astounds me. Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.--There are five of them now, white headed old things huddled together and pointing crooked fingers at the glass.

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?

At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.

I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.

I think there is just a vein of humanity that really loves animals and really loves to read about them.