Kids saying “who?” to the name of that singer you loved back then. Kids saying “You mean it’s a real band?” when you point out that their Dave Matthews Band t-shirt makes them look like a frat boy. Orgasms, obviously. The last three pages of a good big book you don’t ever want to finish. That chord, resolved, at the end of a symphony. Every drop of the curtain on the stage. Watching other people succumbing to sleep or illness or dementia—so many other people, good God. When the big good meal is done, or when your metabolism changes and keeps the good meal in you and you finally throw out that favorite pair of pants that will never fit. When the big good meal is done and your body can’t handle its richness and its persimmons from here on out. Breakups and getting fired and the project ending and the tough exam question and a filled blue book. Weddings as much as funerals. Haircuts. Recycling old newspapers with all those dates gone by printed on them. According to the Catholic church, death, judgment, heaven, and hell. Dancing all night but “sitting this one out”. Leaving the wild party that still rages on and walking by a window and hearing somebody laugh without you. Orwell’s last written sentence: “At 50, everyone has the face he deserves.” Watching children open presents when you have already unwrapped all of yours. Not the tortoise but the hare, a lesson to us all. Boxing up the Christmas ornaments in January (Christmas will kill you). The caboose, the couplet, the canceled flight. Walt Whitman saying farewell a hundred times in Leaves of Grass—"Now finale to the shore…” The 16th sequel to Playstation 5’s “Final Fantasy” oops never mind here’s another final one. The grade I gave you and don’t try to grub for a better one, kiddo. Physicist Richard Feynman’s last words: “This dying is boring.”
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When the beginning of autumn slams the door and tells summer to get the hell out of here.
Love the caboose and the couplet and the cancelled flight And you are never boring
Feynman needed you at his last timings