If I shut everything else out and filled the room with memories, the past could become the present, and I could live there, with him. I would never leave.

He took the last seat, as usual, a subtle reminder of what he was and what he had become.

I'm a century old, an impossible age, and my brain has no anchor in the present. Instead it drifts, nearly always to the same shore. Today, as most days, it is 1962. The year I discovered love.

The world is entirely magical, the only illusion is that it isn't...

Fuck the past. This was the present.

I'm living in the present, thinking about the past, hoping for the future.