So the f***er finally did it. Well, like my brother used to keep prattling about, twenty years from now, nobody will remember Nadal's early exit and Fedex will have a career grand slam to show his fat kids.

It seems to me that both the artist and the philosopher are preoccupied with the same domain, that of the self.

One seeks to cling to the self, to explore and expand it, to eke out a place of one's own. For the other, all attempts at uniqueness seem folly.

One seeks expression; the other, release. One yearns to be visible; the other will settle for nothing but oblivion.

Trouble is, I don't know who's what.

***

The smallness of your heart comes in various shapes. But then that is bearable even though it's the one thing you have been trying to escape.

What is inescapable, and hence unbearable, is when you confront it in someone you don't want to confront it in.

***

Anger and desire seem to be conjoined. You distill anger from your spirit and later you realize that desire has slinked out the back door. And when anger makes a special appearance, desire starts licking the edges of your soul. While the artist needs both, the philosopher seems dead set against them.

Age is a quiet shutting of doors as day deserts.

Turn your back, knot your robe, shuffle around the house, lock the windows, draw the curtains, turn on the light and wait for the lizards to come out of hiding.

Age is renewing the newspaper subscription, feeding the cat when it isn't hungry, watering the cactuses shrubbing the porch.

Plumber fixes leaks for free. Neighbours make excuses to check if you're still alive. Careful : don't bore the kids.

Age is valium, bed sores, wispy hair, sagging breasts, oatmeal memories, cataract evenings, cancer lurking around the prostrate.

Fall asleep in the arm-chair. Drool on your shoulder. Forget dreaming. Forget worrying.

Age is a phone call nobody makes.

Watch the world shrink. To the street. To the door. To the puddle of urine around your feet. To the hardened lines on your nails. To your thoughts. Feel it shrivel inside your pajamas. Feel it warp into the furrows on your forehead and trickle down the wrinkles around your eyes.

Age is a dusty calendar two years old.

Slice a vein. Inject an air-bubble. Slip in the shower. Drown in the bath-tub. Easy does it.

Age is an ache for life that refuses to go away.