Worn down, scratched up, shredded, fading. We get there gradually, as we ride along. Most of us hold the handrail. Work or money or a god or a cause. Love if you’re lucky. I am. Whatever it is that protects you from the cutting edges, from the interstices that can suck you in and destroy bits of you if you’re not careful. And we mend and polish, so that for moments or years we appear less ravaged. Sometimes we walk the other way, thinking we can defy the rules.


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