He sits there clambering against the window in his hat and dark sunglasses. Walking cane between his decaying hair-infected legs he lets his hand fall – to inspect. The veins looked as though they were on the brink of bursting, a valley between them with a stream of concave scars, blotches and enormous moles hanging like a droplet in denial of a fall from the kitchen tap. He truly had become a monster, the smelly old man, the ogre that would sniff and slurp and hang his tongue out unwillingly. To be so old as to look in the mirror and feel that pit-stomach feeling when you remember what you were. For the next milestone in life to be death. What are your priorities now? When no one can bare to look at you or even sit next to you on a crowded bus. Do you fear this day? And would you sit next to me?