When Did I Stop Being Me?

The More Distressing The Memory, The More Persistent It's Presence.

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.

How Is It That Everyone On This Train Has So Much Alcohol?" "we Always Head To Canada At The Beginning Of The Season," She Says Taking Her Seat Again. "their Laws Are Much More Civilized. Cheers.

When You Are Five, You Know Your Age Down To The Month. Even In Your Twenties, You Know How Old You Are. I'm Twenty-three You Say, Or Maybe Twenty-seven. But Then In Your Thirties, Something Strange Starts To Happen. It Is A Mere Hiccup At First, An Instant Of Hesitation. How Old Are You? Oh, I'm--you Start Confidently, But Then You Stop. You Were Going To Say Thirty-three, But You Are Not. You're Thirty-five. And Then You're Bothered, Because You Wonder If This Is The Beginning Of The End. It Is, Of Course, But It's Decades Before You Admit It.

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.