All is illusion

It is gray out. My window here has been denuded a bit, but that means that this window - a non-opening, large pane in the middle of two more openable nar-French windows (I'm sure there is a correct term for this), has been puttied up and sealed. There has been this gap on the topmost portion of the window for eons - a major highway for insect seeking a better world inside here with me. Will I miss my bugaboos? As much as they'll miss me.
Dear friend Albert, he who lives in Monterey, answered questions as to people from our shared past there oh so long ago for me. The first person asked for was Roger Wasson, whom I find has done himself in with a gun, all while talking with another friend, on the phone - at Roger's parent's home. Thank you Viet Nam for another late death brought on by your majesty. Roger was such the nice person - and nice persons finish last, I guess -- or first, as this appears to be. Sometimes it's better to be in the dark and not ask questions. Nah - this way, the correct thought can be directed, if that is even a tangible here. Yes, very tangible, as Roger is now very much in my thoughts.
There were more tales from the bay. Has it been 30 years since I lived there? Yup. I must be really old. That place is a small world.
"Uh, have you been asleep or something? Yes, you are very old." My worst suspicions confirmed. What were my parents up to when they were this same age? They felt old then too, I am sure. In fact, I think this year I outlive my father, if I succeed. That's a loaded statement in this place of momentary remembrances.
Change is the only constant.
Wow - did I think that up by myself? Deep, Chuck, deep.
All is illusion, anyhow. Count how many fingers I have raised.
What is this thing on my lower lip? A remnant of some hideous looking bit of 'who know what' that sat on my kisser for the duration of my last visit to Boston last October. What a thrill. Time wounds all heels....