'Til We Bury Every Dream In The Cold Cold Ground

Because it is more or less all I have left to me at this point-and God knows if it goes I’ve got no way of getting a new one-I am particularly protective of my laptop. So as I walked over to the Awl offices this morning amidst the thin, still-unshoveled layer of last night’s snowfall I took each step a little more gingerly than usual. And as I trudged my way across the avenues it suddenly occurred to me that anyone who noted my progress would observe a man whose deliberate but hesitant carriage bore all the hallmarks of the caution and fright. Which is to say, this is how one becomes old. I’m not sure how many more winters I have allotted to me, but every successive season will surely see me moving slightly more slowly, until I am one of those hunched and hobbled figures whose existence you only become aware of as you speedily pass them by. Anyway, consider this a weather report. It’s still a little slippery out there, so be careful.