When I was ten, the past hardly existed. I'd give it an occasional glimpse, nothing more. When I was 20 it made noises like it wanted my attention - I ignored it. When I was 40 I felt this harsh wind on my back, a cold wind - that demanded I listen, I did. When I was 60, the past leaned into me like an old dog too tired to stand. I held it up, it was familiar, I understood. When I turned 70, the past sat next to me, hand clasping mine, trying to pull me back to where it was most comfortable - I resisted and resist still. The past is not my friend, it's not my keeper. It's what I once did, not even who I once was.

I absolutely love this piece, Thom.