Some day I will be old and you won’t
want me. I will be a worn out
body that gets in your way. You’ll
feel annoyed to have to care
for a slowing mind. Hours spent
with me will feel long. I will say
the same things repeatedly. O!—and
time will catch up with you too.
I cannot stand to think of it: how
you will face the same. That dark
long corridor. That dread
of how nothing stops.