Keeping up the appearance of having all your marbles is hard work, but important.

I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets.

I am further back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief-- even the dogs were howling.

Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.

Life goes on with fragile normalcy.

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?

Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.