I am truly, utterly, running out of time. Age is a terrible monster that creeps silently and stealthily up my back. My mental diligence has faltered. The books, unread; poems unfinished. My body has been left to rot, an empty shell. What life, is that? I have not read enough, wrote enough, seen enough. I am breathing, and that does not mean I am living.
Maybe I am just exhausted.