Life Is The Most Spectacular Show On

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?

I Stroke Her Lightly, Memorizing Her Body. I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Lie Motionless, Savoring The Feeling Of Her Body Against Mine. I'm Afraid To Breathe In Case I Break The Spell.

Why The Hell Shouldn't I Run Away With The Circus?

... 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.

My Platitudes Don't Hold Their Interest And I Can Hardly Blame Them For That. My Real Stories Are All Out Of Date. So What If I Can Speak Firsthand About The Spanish Flu, The Advent Of The Automobile, World Wars, Cold Wars, Guerrilla Wars, And Sputnik — That's All Ancient History Now. But What Else Do I Have To Offer? Nothing Happens To Me Anymore. That's The Reality Of Getting Old, And I Guess That's Really The Crux Of The Matter. I'm Not Ready To Be Old Yet.