Alzheimer's is incidious that way.....

Alzheimer's disease (AD), also refered to simply as Alzheimer's, is a chronic neurodegenerative disease that usually starts slowly and worsens over time.

There was a time when I would come home from work to find her crying.
"Why are you crying? What's wrong?.... Did something happen?"
And she would sob: "I don't know."
I think she knew that something was happening to her,.... that things were slipping way, very slowly.
And, sadly, I prayed that God would take her, because I did not want to see her crying and afraid.

In the end I started to give her own pep talks back to her....  telling her that crying would not help. Telling her that she needed to keep busy.  Encouraging her to read and do word puzzles, anything to stimulate her mind.  We had NO IDEA what was happening to her.

Alzheimer's is incidious that way,...it steals in when no one realizes it, and it slowly steals away the mind,... not making it's victim crazy, making them lost and afraid.  And they KNOW-- they are aware that they are losing their way.  Can anything be more frightening? 

I had an Aunt who suffered from Alzheimer's, .... "suffered from" -that almost sounds gentle, but it's not gentle at all.  They told me that she would have moments of lucidity. She would suddenly state: "I'm afraid! I don't know what is happening to me." 

They lose their way.  They have trouble navigating through the day.  My mother would sleep.... a lot... too much. I believe that she dreamed her day,... she dreamed that she took her medicine (she did not take it),... she dreamed that she ate her lunch (she did not eat if no one was there to eat with her).... 
I had the evidence,... the prescription bottles, still full, well past the time for refills... weeks past.  
And no lunch was eaten,.... the yogurt was still in the fridge. It had been her habit to eat one container of yogurt for lunch, and to leave that container and spoon in the kitchen sink "to wash with the dinner dishes."  I would come home and find the sink empty...the yogurt was still in the fridge.

Thinking back, over the years,... back to when she came to live at my house.... there were little episodes... There were the times when I thought, "she's just forgetful." or "She is losing some memory/confused/doing that because she is getting old.  Because the little episodes do not alarm you.
The crying alarmed me, but it was one week out of twelve years,... I thought she put it behind her.... now I think that she forgot because she had Alzheimer's.  It snuck in, like a thief, and a little bit at a time it took her away.....from me, from everyone and everything she cared about.

She held tight to some things. She ALWAYS knew who I was. Always!  She knew her third husband's daughters. Thankfully they did keep in touch with her, and sent her cards always, or visited her.  If she knew a person, if they mattered to her --then she knew them on sight. 

People would call me....one of her nieces: "I visited  Aunt Lil, and she saw me coming down the hall and said my name!"
 .... her step-daughter: "I visited your Ma, and she knew who I was!"
They were surprised because they knew she had Alzheimer's.

This is what I know: people with Alzheimer's remember the past.  At least many of them do.  And if they can hold on to the here and now at all - you can ask them about the past, about their childhood, their children, their life, and they can tell you about it! It is the day to day, short term that is gone.
My mother? every 15 minutes she would ask, "What day is it?" she could not remember.  But she could follow a joke and know if it was truly funny.  

That was a thing though,... every 15 minutes.... because I knew for a long time that she was slipping away.... years before she went to the nursing home.  I realized that she was repeating.... people came to visit at the house, and they would talk with her for about 15 or 20 minutes, and at that point she would circle the conversation back to where they had begun.  Every 20 minutes. 

I took her out to visit people who could not, or would not drive out to see her.  I showed those people what was happening.  Every 20 minutes.  Every person I took her to visit saw it.  Every one of them knew she was going away from us very slowly.  I am thankful that those folks were able to see it, and that I did not have to explain to them where she went.

That is all of the story I can tell today.... it makes me too sad,... to go back over it again.... to remember the cruel, vile disease that stole her away.

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(What prompts me to write this now? a story about AD on a television program.)

Alzheimer's Assocation

Wikipedia -- Alzheimer's_disease

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the bicycle

We lived there less than a year.
In a Cape Cod -sytle home, on the "S" curve of U.S. Highway 83, about three blocks from the railroad track.  Also, about 3 blocks from the school I attended, Saint Raymonds.
I was 7 years old, so some of it is a bit foggy in my mind,... I was a child and paid more attention to childish things.

I remember that was were I learned to ride a 2-wheeler bicycle at last. There were training wheels on my little bicycle, and I was still uncertain about having that "safety net" taken away.  One day, though, I asked my dad to remove one of the training wheels.  This was mainly because I had heard more than one person comment that I was no longer actually using the training wheels.  I told dad that I would try riding it in the back yard, on the grass, if that was ok with him.... so that, if I fell the ground would be more gentle than the pavement.  Do you remember how difficult it can be to pedal a bicycle on grass?  Right, that lasted about 10 minutes.  I walked the bicycle to the front of the house and rode up and down on the sidewalk a couple of times.  Dad came out front to watch.  "Oh dad, take the other training wheel off, I don't need it!" I proclaimed.  And there I went! off down the sidewalk and back again.... and then, something I did not expect.... we put my little bicycle, which was the perfect size for me, into the truck of the car and drove to Bade's Bicycle Shop on Prairie Avenue at Center Street, in Des Plaines, Illinois.

The building that was once Bade's Bike Shop..... the trees were not there when I was 7......

I was instructed to pick out a "big" bicycle.  I picked out a blue bike and my dad had them install a basket on the front, and a bell on the handlebars.

The honest truth is that bicycle was too big,... I was not tall enough. But I could not let dad down, I had to accept that bicycle and ride it.  It was probably a good lesson in what I like to call "you gotta wanna",.... but it was also a dangerous thing, and we were all lucky that I did not fall or lose control or get hurt.  My dad was just so excited for me to ride a "real" bike, and at the same time not really in so much of a hurry for me to grow up.

I had that bicycle for 6 years. 

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SCHWINN

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the "dumbing down" of television

When did it begin? the dumbing down of entertainment.... 
I remember purposely avoiding what I still like to refer to as "brain dead idiot" humor --and I use the term "humor" loosely, because I do not find idiots to be amusing.  For example I was never very tolerant of the character Jethro on The Beverly Hillbillies.... on the flip side I find Hank Kimball, the bumbling county agent on Green Acres to be hilarious.  There is a definite difference between those two characters, and Alvy Moore was brilliant as Hank Kimball, who was not actually an idiot, but rather a very confused man, who did not know if he was coming or going.

But I am on about soap operas.  General Hosiptal to be specific.  I have been watching soap operas since I was a pre-teen.  The best soap operas drag the story out, just a bit.... I can remember a pregnancy (on Y&R) that seemed to drag on for over a year.  But now days they seem to be tripping over their own feet to move rapidly from one story to the next.  It makes for some confusion for the viewers.  

My personal term for it is "DOOL syndrome",...DOOL being Days Of Our Lives, which I tried to watch over a decade ago,.... alas, they moved along at such a rapid pace that I could not stomach it.  This was prior to Marlena being possessed by the devil, which cemented my permanent hatred of that trash.

But recently I have been attempting to watch General Hospital.  The one story they are taking at a realistic pace (so far) is Mike's Alzheimer's disease.  They are taking their time, in a fairly realistic manner, and dealing with the Alzheimer's storyline with a better level of compassion and really playing it out. They are really touching the hearts of the viewers with that one story.  If only they could slow the rest of the story down a bit, and let the viewers enjoy it.

Meanwhile, the viewers need to take a step back and appreciate fine acting, particularly by those actors portraying the characters we most despise.  Stop asking for things to be rushed, if you are uncomfortable watching certain characters that is a huge compliment to the talent.

Current kudos to James DePaiva -Bensch is vile and repulsive -well done! and  Chloe Lanier- rarely do the viewers have a deeper hatred for any character than they have done for Janelle Benson!
As for Margaux Dawson -please, for lord sake -REVEAL her background and ulterior motives to the viewers at least!! Give us something, because we are rapidly losing interest!
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.DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON "REALITY" TELEVISION..... that shit ain't real.....

My favorite "reality show" is still The Walking Dead, but I don't watch television any longer.....
I get my General Hospital fix off the internet.....
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..blow up your tv.....throw away your paper.....
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Ye olde Junque drawer...

A friend shared this on Facebook.... and, naturally, it brought some memories along with it....

If northern Illinois is "Midwest" then we fit the description.... in the northwest suburbs of Chicago....  and there was a junk drawer.  The junk drawer I remember came after the candy drawer..... yes the candy drawer.  I was one picky 7 year old.  I only liked about 4 items out of a very full bag of Trick or Treat candy that particular Halloween.  

We lived for about a year, in a Cape Cod style home, on the "S" curve of a highway, in a town in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. So, having moved from a long time home, my father had thrown away EVERYTHING ,.... according to my mom.  I don't recall, I was too young and distracted by childish things....  Suffice to say that there was more storage space than we needed in that Cape Cod. So, there was an unused drawer in the kitchen, and that was the receptacle into which my father dumped the trick or treat candy that I did not want to eat.  

Imagine the delight of my little friends, when my dad would give them a "tour" of the main floor of the house, and with relish open that candy drawer and tell them that they could each have one piece of candy. He would smile and wink, and promise not to tell their parents....  

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Now, the junk drawer that I remember was in the next house we lived in --for the next couple of decades.  It was in the kitchen, and it contained many useful items.  Rubber bands, a couple of screwdrivers, a pliers, pencils, rubber bands (off the daily newspaper), paper clips, coins, some screws, candles (in case the electricity went out), chains from overhead light fixtures,... oh so many things.... more than I can recall at the moment.  I may even still have a few of those items, packed together in a box someplace.....

That junk drawer was located in the counter, next to the refrigerator, and below where the telephone was installed.  A wall phone, yes in those days.... a standard wall phone with a 6 foot spiraled cord.  And in front of the drawer was a step-stool chair.

Exactly like this, only ours was red vinyl.

I would sit on that chair, talking to a friend on the phone, and I would organize the junk drawer.  That is why I remember it so well.  It occupied my time whilst talking about nothing, as twelve year old girls tended to do rather often.  I never made it look perfect, and I never wanted to,.... I was really taking inventory, in case I ever needed to use any of the items in that drawer.

Is the junk drawer a region specific thing?  I don't know... it never occured to me. I always thought that everyone in the world had a junk drawer. 

Did you have a junk drawer?  Do you still have a junk drawer?  I actually have more than one junk drawer, but that is a condition of living alone, and of trying to keep certain things where they are more easily found.

...come to think of it, my parents actually had more than one junk drawer.... certain things, like birthday candles, and road maps were kept in the drawer of a small hutch in our dining room.

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"Ye Old Junque Drawer".... my dad would like that phraseology. 

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The names are made up.... cafe time....

This is a place I come to, to write, and for the free wifi. 

I have been coming here for longer than 18 months.  The first few months were during a dark period of unemploy, when I grew tired of the silence in the library. (Any Whovians among you will understand the reference. *wink.)  This is a café.  Usually, but not always, they play some inane jazz-style music, mainly to drown conversations and make eavesdropping difficult.  But today is Sunday, and baristas either do not like the music, or they forget to turn it on.  It is still. Quiet, but for patrons who enter, of which there are few early on a Sunday.  Herein I will describe some of the patrons I have observed in this establishment.

For me it is not about the coffee. I am not a huge fan of coffee.

Sunday mornings there is the lonely, rich entrepreneur.  He buzzes into the parking lot in one of those very expensive Mercedes Benz, two seater convertibles.  Some Sundays he sits out there by himself waiting for his “little” friend –the bearded raconteur, who begins by naming the three hyper-intellectual books that he has read in the past week.  That particular fellow I have not seen in over a month, but there are other sycophants.  One or another will appear shortly, occasionally two will join.  They discuss books, politics, and local news.  I have only ever heard a few of the book titles, and most of the local news.  They are indiscreet, but I try not to listen.

Weekdays there are the “olds”,… a group of anywhere two and as many as eleven, senior citizens who meet early weekday mornings to chat.  There is the Archie Bunker of the group, a loud-mouthed complainer and general rascal.  Often seated next to “Archie”  the George Jefferson of the group, equally grouchy, but able to hold his tongue most of the time.  “Archie” and “George” mutually dislike each other, but “George” graciously holds his tongue, just taking it all in with wry amusement.  There are 5 “usuals” who range from “Archie” who is working part-time to get by on the social security pittance, to “Humphrey” who is rich and a former bank president-from what I have overheard.  At least one woman, “Betty Jane”, rounds out the group, and sometimes “Humphrey’s” young looking wife joins the group.  They chat for an hour, then most leave, but occasionally “Betty Jane” and “George” stay and talk, and laugh about “Archie” and his crazy stories.

There are the mah jong  ladies, they show up every Friday morning and play for hours.  Lots of boisterous laughter, and noisy shuffling of mah jong tiles at the end of each match.    On Wednesdays or Thursdays there are the Scrabble ladies.

Another Friday group is the mysterious old ladies…. Spies perhaps (*wink),… they often exchange documents and discreetly put them into their carryall bags.  You have to really watch them to catch them at it.  There is something secretive about the exchange and quick insertion to the bags.  After they play cards.  Skipbo this week, but other complicated card games other weeks.  Perhaps there is a code in all that card playing –I hadn’t thought of that before (*wink).  I have observed them playing canasta at one point, and with one I do not often see they played Bridge.  The number of mysterious old ladies varies from week to week, with as many as six in the group, though not all participate in the card games.  There is a large woman who has trouble getting around, a Brit- the accent gives it away don’t you know,  and there are two other regulars, but I cannot describe them.  The Brit thinks I told her about my mother as if mom were still alive…when I informed her that mom died 12 years ago the Brit stopped speaking to me, and now casts angry glances my way.  ‘Look lady, I can’t help it if you twisted that conversation around in the week that went by between our speaking!’

There are regular “booth sitters” as well –like myself.  I get in early on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday –when they open, and I occupy the third booth, away from the windows.  

There is “Harry”, who shaves his head and comes in here to use the free wifi to participate in some kind of multi-player war or strategy game online –he stays for hours and hours (like me).  And “Reg”, who also shaves his head, and comes in to watch some videos or listen to music…”Reg” does not stay more than an hour or two. 

The chess players come in every Friday between 9:00 and 1:00. 

The businessman comes in daily, after 3, and does some computer work to round out his day.  Record keeping over coffee and a slice of pie.  

The “fat” boys, father and son actually,…they used to come in every afternoon,..I have not seen them in months, …if I recall correctly they did not come in on Fridays, and I never saw them on the weekend.

This barely scratches the surface, as the list of “regulars” is a long one. 

So.  Yesterday afternoon, the gal managing this café decided to rearrange some of the furniture…. It makes me wish I could be here every day to get the reactions of the regulars…. They will NOT be happy.  The big round table is over by the front door –“the olds” will HATE that! And the chess players as well.  It is noisier over there, right next to the front door….people come and go, and there is the noise of the baristas as well.  It is quiet over here in the booths, away from the bustle of the business.  ....They also moved the “library” chairs out of the little alcove and placed a 2 person table there instead.  But now the “library” chairs are out in the middle of the place, by the gas fireplace. That will prove unpopular also. .....I wonder what the regular ‘day-lady’ baristas will do,… there will be complaints - to this rearrangement.

And, in a little corner of the world, life goes on….

An Inconvenient Person

An inconvenient human

That is what I am.

I was my parents last child; their only child with each other.  I was a surprise, an after effect of over a decade of marriage and the feeling that there would be no child.  And then a higher being realized that my mother would need someone to look after her because she was to have Alzheimer’s disease and would need someone.  So the higher being decided that there would be an inconvenient human: me.

It has taken me a lot of years to learn a difficult lesson.  I have served my purpose, and now no one wants to spend even an hour dining with me.  I am somehow defective beyond that ability to shepherd an old woman through a few hazy years of a disease stripping away her life, finding caregivers who made her feel comfortable and perhaps more loved by those strangers than I have been in my entire life.

what family. they scatter like crows. 

Yes, this is hard to write.  Because it only in the last hour that I have realized that I must write this down.  It must be out of me, so that I can move forward into,…. the nothingness of a solitary existence.  Out of sight, out of mind, right?  That is the case.  No one thinks of me, and by “think” I mean invites me because they want to spend time with me.  I am an obligation more than a beloved.  That is more painful than it is a comfort.

If I am “strange” consider that I am all alone all of the time.  I have no conversations with other humans,  I converse only with myself.  And apparently others take an instant dislike to me, unobtrusive as I try to be.  The only conclusion is that I must be repulsive.  So I withdraw, a little at a time, from the world.  Because being alone and conversing with myself is less painful, less emotionally taxing for me… being with others has become exhausting. 

A word of warning: dare not be a single human, seeking friendship, or a mere hour or two of conversation.  Dare not ever think that others truly care at all, because the fact is that no one cares about anyone other than themselves.  Invite away, but no one answers, even the widest plea and months in advance. I never had a friend.

The most hurtful thing is looking back and realizing that, not only has it always been this way for me, but that it was always meant to be this way.

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Solitary is my confinement.

Watching the togetherness is my punishment.

I wish I knew why.

Never anyone’s best friend, 

though I thought they were mine.

Mother, pink floyd


Black Hole Sun

Black Hole Sun

Soundgarden

In my eyes, indisposed
In disguises no one knows
Hides the face, lies the snake
The sun in my disgrace
Boiling heat, summer stench
'Neath the black the sky looks dead
Call my name through the cream
And I'll hear you scream again

Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come
Won't you come (won't you come)

Stuttering, cold and damp
Steal the warm wind tired friend
Times are gone for honest men
And sometimes far too long for snakes
In my shoes, a walking sleep
And my youth I pray to keep
Heaven sent hell away
No one sings like you anymore

Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come
Won't you come

Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come
Won't you come (black hole sun, black hole sun)

Won't you come (black hole sun, black hole sun)
Won't you come (black hole sun, black hole sun)
Won't you come (black hole sun, black hole sun)

Hang my head, drown my fear
Till you all just disappear

Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come
Won't you come

Black hole sun
Won't you come
And wash away the rain
Black hole sun
Won't you come

Songwriters: Chris Cornell

Black Hole Sun lyrics © BMG Rights Management

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dark side
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have you? seen the real me? .
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childhood car rides, bumming

I cannot even begin to describe how this photo speaks to me.

Of childhood,

riding in the back seat of the big Oldsmobile.

Daddy looks at me in the rear view mirror,

he catches my eye.

Daddy says, "sing for me."

I am so small, so young.

I begin with the ABCs, a sing-songy little voice...

I sing some nursery rhymes.

I sing songs "of olde",... 

Down By the Old Mill Stream, but I only knew one verse,

Row, Row, Row Your Boat,

America The Beautiful,

probably The National Anthem,...

I sing every song I can think of,.... 

then I start the ABCs again...

Unless we have reached our destination.

I know by the scenery where we might be going.

If Daddy did not announce a destination ...

if he did not say- then we are "bumming".

If we are "bumming" he does have a destination in mind,

but he could change his mind,

or just drive for a while and then decide.

If it is early on a weekend day I know where,

Daddy favorite sister's house,

Or,

maybe his favorite brother-in-law....

What do I see out the car windows?

Corn fields? Railroad tracks? a castle?

Summertime we go "bumming" after early supper....

Daylight will be for hours still.

Many times I witness beautiful sunsets on the way home.

Sometimes I count the stars and look at the moon.

Oh, how I long to "go bummin'.." 

with daddy and mommy.

and go home to a place that no longer exists.

and have no worries, and not a care.

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Weird dreams, did you say?

Weird dreams, did you say?

I can tell you all about weird dreams.  Somewhere in the mix of the Magical Mystery Tour, running through the looking glass, into a Karn Evil 9.  Throw in a side of Doctor Who and you’re getting closer.

Last night I had the strangest dream (yes, I do say that a lot. Indeed.)

First there was the animal enclosure… inside it were small elephants and small giraffes.  From a distance they all appeared normal in size, um…by earth standards I guess I should say.  I just don’t know.  I was invited into the enclosure.  That’s when I realized that the animals were,…somewhat miniature.  The adult elephants the size of bull mastiffs, or if you are not familiar with those, think Newfoundland or Saint Bernard.  The giraffes were, of course a bit taller, what with the long necks and long legs.

When I opened the door I startled one of the tiny, baby giraffes.  The creature let out frightened “YELP”, and then turned toward me and rose up on its rear legs, in a gesture that plainly said, “pick me up, I am scared and I scared you too.”  And then it shat on me.  I did not mind. It was just a baby, after all, and I had startled the poor thing.

And then the animals, enclosure and all, vanished and I was on my way into the basement of my house.  Something about laundry and if only this damn house had a bathroom in the downstairs.  VOILA!!   There I see a bathroom, sink and lav, where the laundry room exists in reality. And as I approached I could see that another little room had been added, and in that room was a washer and a dryer.  How delightful!  Oh, but look over here! Suddenly there are other people with me… and they are indicating a newly added doorway, in the middle of an expanse of wall.  It seems to be a crafters closet, in a new push out from the existing footprint of the building….. it was just about where the window well exists in the real world.

We adjourned upstairs, and I found myself outdoors, where I spy a man with a great many dogs.  Yes, dogs.  None of the dogs is much more than knee high.  All of the dogs are a brown-honeyish color.  I think to myself, “38 dogs.”  And suddenly I am in a mansion with the man, the dogs, and the mans wife and many teenage children.  I am introduced to Grandmother,  a very old matriarch.  We are going to a party in Grandmother’s honor, it’s her birthday party.  A huge affair.  There are long tables in the hall, and then the hall vanishes and we are outdoors.  Many long tables, and even more chairs, but and there are strange entertainers along the sides of the party tables, behind you if you are seated facing the tables.

One of the entertainers pitches an object at me, and I do mean pitch.  The object hits me hard enough to embed it spines into my cloak.  I pry the object loose and toss it back in the direction I believe it came from.  I walk around the table area, looking for the Grandmother, but not finding her.  Along the way I find the man with the 38 dogs.  We are among a group of family members, and they mention the 38 dogs…. For indeed that is how many dogs the man has.  The dogs prance around the periphery of the party, I walk with the family group for a moment, then they vanish.  I am still looking for the Grandmother, so I continue.

Eventually I pause and sit to rest. Food in appetizer form has been brought to the tables.  I join in eating a bit, while wondering where the man with the 38 dogs has gone, and will I find the Grandmother.  The sky darkens, there is some odd entertainment.  It is funny, but it is all like a cartoon. I see something amusing, and as I move closer it makes me think of Mr. Bean, except that it is still very cartoon-like.

Quite suddenly I am walking toward a large bed.  It is the Grandmother’s bed, but no one is in the bed, it is made.  I move on, back along the periphery of the party tables.  There are a great many people at this party.  I spy a man sitting on his own, behind the partyers… he is somehow handicapped or disabled.  I decide that I will ask him about this party, and whether he knows where the Grandmother is.  The mans wife pushes back from the table and scurries over to intercept me.

In another sudden change of scene I see a young woman with a child.  They are at the door to a building…. It seems like a terrific idea to explore, so into the building we go.  It is like stepping into a historical recreation, with antique furniture and tchotchkes.  There is an ironwork staircase, and a dumbwaiter style, single person, lift.  The young woman and child step onto the lift platform and it drops suddenly, as the two exclaim, and shriek.  I peer down the wrought iron stairs, and then rapidly head downward.   When I reach the bottom and step away the stairs rise up, into the stairs above.  Looking around I see a small room, but no people.  I want to go back up. I reach up and pull the stairs back down, but they do not open properly, fully.  I climb and clamor over railings, bypassing the damaged portion of the stairs, where I would not fit through the opening.  Openings are getting smaller, how like a dream. 

I do manage to gain access to the next level and the next.  Here are windows, and I think I see a lake out there, but there is also a creature, large, slimy looking hunchbacked…. A voice tells me to touch the creature, but I do not want to.  Somehow I know that danger lies in touching the pea-soup-green, slimy looking thing.  It moves, in a kind of rocking motion, its head hidden from my view by a portion of whatever I am standing on.

I wake up.  Very groggy, due to medications I have taken at bedtime.  38 dogs? That man. The Grandmother…. The slimy skinned creature….

I shrug all of it off… the stuff of nightmares for some is old hat for me….. I am a pro.  I have had the stuff of nightmares every night, as far back as I am able to recall.

Mr. Kite? nothing disturbing about it...

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By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

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Peacefully I sleep.

I am comfortable with the odd-mares.

the bad cannot hurt me here.

I know where I am.

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It is early to feel this way....(take me home)

I am catching hints.
My autumnal melancholia is bleeding through....

Like walkin' on a country road....

It is hard to describe... a feeling of loss.. a certain mourning...in the morning.
And in the afternoons and evenings.... 

This time it is the last time I have seen someone.  He'll not pass through here ever again.

I want to be on a country road,... I want to go home to a place that's been long gone.
I want to go where you cannot go again.
I want to go home.

I have known this feeling since I was a small child.
A deep, mournful melancholia...
Daydreams of a lifetime of sad feelings..

What is happiness......



age, ... up and down and around and round....


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