And now there is this. The absence of. The angry pissings from the Hotel Fatigado: us and them, man and woman, worn out. We are who we say, and no one hears. Age and nicotine, pills and coffee, inconvenient pauses between sentences. Each step is a step away from who we were. We glide across the walkway in loose slippers, slide our prayers through loose dentures, ride between the bed and toilet with loose bowels. And age, for all its contempt, is what we have left. We own it and abhor it because we have slipped away from purity, and we have scurried between each fear, and we mourn all the wrong choices. We cry in our cluttered, dusty rooms, and massage our aching knees with crippled fingers. We pray for a decent cocktail of cheap pills and affordable sleep. This is where we live and this is who we are. We are together in every objection, and we are together for every rejection, and it will be the same for each of us. We are together, and this is where we live.