““ Excerpt from "The Trees in Winter" I’m old now and tired. Dried up and brittle. My hands are like clumsy crooked twigs hanging from my stick figure wrists. My body doesn’t work like it used to, and what goes on in my mind feels about as useful as a cheap trick performed day after day by a third rate magician, an act so worn out that not even I can pretend to be entertained by it anymore. There’s nothing much left to say and even less to do. The repetition is uninspiring, like playing the same set of the same songs day after day. The jazz has gone out of my life, and the dull plodding rhythm I’m left with will never bring it back. There’s a persistent chill in the house that follows me around. Maybe it’s not in the house but in me. Am I becoming morbid? Am I becoming anything?””
