a new war a different fight now, warding off the weariness of old age, retreating to your room, stretching out upon the bed, there’s not much will to move, it’s near midnight now. not so long ago your night would be just beginning, but don’t lament lost youth: youth was no wonder either. but now it’s the waiting on death. it’s not death that’s the problem, it’s the waiting. you should have been dead decades ago. the abuse you loaded upon yourself was enormous and non-ending. a different fight now, yes, but nothing to mourn about, only to note. frankly, it’s even a bit dull waiting on the
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