Life drains in insignificant trickles. That bucket trickling over all night leaving an empty tank behind and todays news to wipe your posterior with. When did we all grow so old? Im still six. When I grow up, I want to be big.
As a true child id watch the RCA pig on dads Lps run circles around the dufer in the middle as the Bee Gees and I squealed with equal porcine excitement. Somehow using the "B" key on winamp to impatiently skip past the bilion files you dont want but must retain, isnt even a close second. Even the Eagles are sick of singing on MP3 and 'In the city' sounds like theyre singing a Lahiri half original squeezing their gonads to wrestle a few dying falsettos to get through with it.
Cycles with their hex keys are sinister now - front forks greased to throw you off everytime you need to slow down. I repent downhills now knowing that at some point I must turn around and climb up. Ashu my trusted cycle mechanic has seen my wallet swollen a few time now. He winks at his apprentice, asking for the special bearings for my mean wheels on their last legs.
My wit sneers at me saving its punch only for when i am self deprecating. It only spits saliva at others. THe phlegm is just for me. Globular green and indivisible.
Winding down I am still a six. Snug under a quilt and vowing to read Seuss twicw more tomorrow with reassurance from when i sat in class with crap in my pants. This too shall pass.