Monk Quixote

I’m grow­ing old. Empir­i­cally, mechan­i­cally and emo­tion­ally — I’m older. I know this. I can see it, feel it, touch it. Occa­sion­ally, I can smell it, or rather feel the rush of hav­ing aged when a smell cuts across bound­aries like lit­tle else. As we grow older our taste buds reduce in num­ber (or so I’ve read), so I assume I won’t be able to taste get­ting old. And it seems some­what cruel that while my ears keep grow­ing, I will hear less and less of life. (more…)