In which the author wrings his hands over being old, when in fact he’s not old at all, really. Also, in which the author writes about how the passage of time shows its head in chunks and touchpoints, rather than in a straight line.
In which the author wrings his hands over being old, when in fact he’s not old at all, really. Also, in which the author writes about how the passage of time shows its head in chunks and touchpoints, rather than in a straight line.