The Distant

Those who are growing easier as their hair goes gray, those more distant everyday, drinking shallowly and seldom, eating nothing to speak of, sleeping an hour before dawn, and breathing a few times a day, their eyes steadily empty with something they learn as they forget the earth, or rather, deal with it as it is; how do we talk with such men? How do we get them to tell through their frail bodies and wrinkles what they are the maze and puzzle and sign of? Even with each other they won’t tell, but talk around the changes they’ve seen, the celebrities they’ve seen who are dead, the first Model A and the bad roads, and the many friends who are dead; so the younger shake their heads and leave them to themselves; for how can you deal with them, be they ever so rich and strange, if they do nothing but talk of change?

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