Now I'm sixty-eight or so the skin is wrinkling on my arms, my feet are numb, my mind is slow, I'm losing my, what once were, charms. When I was only seventeen my eyes were bright, my skin was clear, psoriasis, I'd never seen, I suffered neither hope, nor fear. As I approach my final stage I feel I need be more discursive, (I hear Sterne made it all the rage), either that, or more subversive. So, in this state of befuddlement, (increasingly it's got a hold), elucidating what I meant by insisting on becoming old, it's necessary I think, or not, depending on your point of view, to indicate, now, how one got to the point of being 'you'. We know that every seven years your every cell becomes replaced but the history of your hopes and fears, once added there, can stilled be traced and tracked, to make you what you seem, an amalgam of your every act and thought and every single dream you've not been able to redact. So, what we are is not the heart, the brain, the blood, kidneys, skin, but something else that's held apart, we keep our understanding in. (Camus, well, he would object to prioritising the Essential, argue we should not neglect to campaign for the Existential). Then let's imagine a collective vault where every memory is kept with no apportionment of fault, particularly by those adept at sniffing out a world of sin held only in their imagination. (Where, in truth, do I begin to penetrate their flagellation!) I think this was researched by Jung, (a colleague of that Sigmund Freud). whose formula, when once begun, began to get his mate annoyed. Not that I know much of this, snippets only I have read, but Jung, he seemed to find a bliss like state by following this thread, this dive into the deep unconscious, collectivising every stream of consciousness, it made him anxious to so interpret every dream, discover what it was that made us, levitate so from our skin, finding shadows that would shade us as we fought the shades within. (I said discursion was my forte, wandering off and coming back. It's a kind of prolix foreplay smoothing over every crack.) Then, what is it I'm trying to tell you in this self-indulgent verse? (Self-indulgence is my milieu, other sins are less a curse.) Can you spot procrastination when you see it in full view, putting off this obligation, finding other things to do? Enough! What is it to be human, animal, with a pulse? Surely very little more than a cluster of cells and little else? We're just like every other living organism on this Earth, fucking, fighting, grasping, giving love to those we've given birth. The question of our cells' replacement each and every seven years, just describes our outer casement, never why we end in tears, or the reason for our dreaming, the character of love and hate, or the striving for some meaning, or any other human trait. Quite so. Now I'm sixty-eight with wrinkly arms and muted ears, I'd like to try and demonstrate how we remain all though the years. For this, the comic metaphor about the old road sweeper's brush, attacks the question at it's core; enlightenment comes in a rush! For he loved that broom with all his heart as he cleaned the street with steady treads. He used the same one from the start, with it's seven handles, fourteen heads.